How It All Began
by BregoArodShadowfax
Summary: So we all know what happened to the ABC Society in the end, but how did the students end up meeting and getting the idea to form it in the first place? My take on how it all started.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I'm deciding to post my new story! Can't promise how frequent updates will come, however, due to the fact that it's a WIP. I have about five chapters written, and I know where it's going, so all that remains is for me to find the time outside of my job to write them down. **

**And, as with most of my stories, I really don't know how good it is…usually my first chapter is one of the weakest ones, because I'm just starting with an idea, but let me know!**

**This story can kind of be considered a prequel to "Ghosts of the Past," being as it's based on the same set of **_**Amis**_**. I've tried to keep the facts as true as possible so that one story doesn't contradict the other, but that can be rather hard to do at times. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave a review. After all, we all love reviews! **

**And I've tried to make it non-slash, for those of you who don't like that kind of thing, so there are no romantic relationships…if it changes, I'll post a warning. Right now, it's the kind of fluffy-brotherly-friendship-platonic love kind of thing. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Les Miz. **

**Chapter One**

"Enjolras! Hurry up!"

The woman was stern-looking, André thought. Dark brown hair and a severe profile made her look intimidating, and her crossed arms and the scowl on her face did little to help.

But as harsh as she appeared, she had little on the man next to her. He was tall and stocky; his black hair just beginning to grey at the temples. His thick black moustache set his face in a perpetual frown, and André, peeking out from behind his father's legs, wondered what sort of person their son would prove to be.

These were their new neighbours; supposedly relatives of the king. That in itself was frightening to the boy, but more so was the fact that their young son was more than likely to be André's only playmate. What if they did not get along?

André did not have long to ponder, however, as a figure appeared at the head of the staircase. André blinked. _This _was their _son_? He looked nothing like either of his parents. His hair was golden and his eyes were bright as sapphires. He wore a serious expression, and there was an aura of experience about him that belied his young age.

"_There _you are! That was very rude of you to keep our company waiting!"

"Yes, Mother. Forgive me, Mother."

The boy's tone was subservient, but there was a fire in his young eyes that made his apology less-than-convincing. His mother seemed satisfied with the response, but his father turned to the boy and, in a tone that brooked no-nonsense, said: "Now, son, these are our new neighbours. You and the boy can go outside and do what you like, but do _not _bother us until you are given permission. Is that clear?"

André winced at the frostiness in the man's tone, but the boy hardly seemed to notice as he replied, "Of course, Father."

The lad inclined his head respectfully and walked out the door as André's mother looked at her son with a kindly smile. "Go on and play, André. We won't be long."

André smiled in return and followed the other boy out. "So," the lad turned. "You're to be our new neighbours, then?"

"So it would seem. I'm André Combeferre," André held out a hand.

The other appraised him with a cool gaze before accepting the handshake. "Enjolras."

"Just 'Enjolras?'"

The look the other gave him was enough to still any further questions on the matter.

"O-okay. Are your parents always that…strict?"

"We are relatives of the king. We must be professional in all of our actions if we want to properly represent France."

The speech was so obviously rehearsed that André had to stifle a laugh. "Well,…what is there to do for fun?"

"_Fun?_ As in, _playing? _ Games are for children."

"And are you not a child?"

"I am a noble. I have no time for children's games."

André was a tad frustrated with the other boy's attitude, but he was persistent. And so, he kept trying.

"Well, what _do _you like to do?"

"Think, mostly. It is one of the few liberties I am allowed. There's a small grove not far from here with a stream where I like to go. Would you like to see it?"

_At last, some progress!_ "I would," André agreed. As they walked, he inquired, "How old are you, Enjolras?"

"Seven."

André tried to mask the surprised look he knew was on his face. Enjolras acted as if he were twice that age; possible more. "Oh."

"Many people say that I am mature for my age," he continued. "I suppose it has to do with the fact that I never see many other children, but that hardly matters. What of yourself? Why are you moving out here?"

"My parents grew weary of the city, I suppose. We all wanted more space."

"Paris…what is it like?"

"You've never been?"

"My parents hardly allow me to roam off of our land. They are somewhat overprotective." His step faltered as he turned to face André. "I suppose I have hardly been playing the gracious host. You see, I do not get many visitors. My cousin comes over on occasion, but that is all. I guess I do not know how it feels to have a friend."

André nodded, his young mind absorbing what he had been told and translating it into the only emotion he found acceptable: pity.

"There were many children where I grew up, but I really only had one close friend. His parents took him on holiday recently, so he will not have heard of our move. I do hope I can see him again," André explained. "My sister stayed in Paris; but then, she is ten years older than me."

The look Enjolras gave him was filled with confusion. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because that is what friends do. Friends can tell each other anything."

"And…we are…friends?"

André smiled. "Of course."

And the smile Enjolras gave him in return told him that he was doing the right thing.

000

"There! Good as new! Just try not to trip on that root again."

Combeferre stood from bandaging the boy's ankle, placing the spare linen back into his bag.

"Thank you, André," the boy's mother smiled at the young man.

"No trouble at all, ma'am. He should be right as rain in no time at all; his ankle was merely twisted."

"But you must accept payment for…"

Combeferre cut the man off with a wave of his hand. "I'm not even a real doctor. I could not possibly be paid for my work."

The farmer nodded, pleased that his already-small income would not take a hit due to medical bills. The truth was, Combeferre hardly had the heart to charge for his services; not when those he was serving had almost nothing. Combeferre shouldered his bag and moved to the door, thankful that he had the skill to help. One of the old farmers close to where he lived had been a surgeon in Napoleon's time, and he had taught Combeferre all he could. Still, Combeferre wanted to take real classes in Paris, but he had promised not to move back to the city until Enjolras was ready to come with him.

"Thank you again, lad! God bless you!"

Combeferre lifted his hand in a wave while his thoughts brought him back to his friend. Their relationship had blossomed over the last nine years until the two were almost inseparable. Enjolras was still somewhat moody and serious but Combeferre had, albeit rarely, seen the other side of him, and he had truly come to treasure their friendship.

He smiled to himself, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. No matter how he tried, he could never get the one piece to stay tied back.

He was greeted by his mother almost as soon as he walked through the front door. It still rankled that his mother was a good half-inch taller than him; and, at eighteen, he was hardly likely to grow any more.

"André! It's a good thing you're home! You're leaving for Paris tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Combeferre repeated. "Why?"

"I couldn't say. Enjolras did not elaborate on much; only said that it was urgent you leave as soon as possible and that you could stay with him until you found a place of your own. He seemed…fairly out of sorts," his mother admitted.

_Out of sorts? _That wasn't like Enjolras at all; Combeferre had never known him to doubt himself on anything. "I'm going to talk to him." Immediately making up his mind, Combeferre paused only to put his bag down before rushing back out the door. He knew where to go: to the grove.

Entering the woods, he spotted the tell-tale flash of gold in the high branches of sprawling tree. "Enjolras?" Climbing up beside the younger man, he attempted to figure out what was bothering his friend. He immediately saw what his mother was talking about, at any rate: Enjolras seemed to be string out into space; his eyes unfocussed, as if witnessing something that wasn't truly there.

"André."

His voice was cold; distant. And even though Combeferre knew that he would deny anything being wrong, he couldn't help but try to get some answers.

"What's wrong? Why are we leaving so suddenly?"

"Nothing you need to be concerned about. Family matters."

Combeferre pulled back, a little surprised at the high level of coldness and detachment he felt from the other. Even though it was expected, it still stung.

"You know you can tell me anything." It was feeble, and he knew it, but it was something that had to be said.

"Not this time. It doesn't concern you." Enjolras pointedly did not look at his friend.

"But maybe I could help…"

"Just leave me alone."

The words cut deep, but Combeferre tried not to let it show. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." He dropped to the ground, lingering for a moment in hope of a response.

He never got one.

000

The carriage ride to Paris was uncomfortable, to say the least. Few words were spoken, and eventually Enjolras fell asleep; leaning against the wall of the fiacre.

Combeferre studied him in the silence, attempting to figure out what had caused the sudden departure and mood fluctuation. His friend looked as if he had not slept in days; something serious must have been bothering him.

And for his parents, who rarely let him out of their sight, to let him leave for Paris so easily? Something was wrong, to be sure.

In his heart, Combeferre had almost expected the cold response he had gotten. Enjolras was much like his father in that way; he never let his emotions surface. When he was troubled, he kept it inside; to him, showing his true feelings was a sign of weakness.

And if there was one thing Enjolras loather more than anything, it was being touched. His parents were hardly the type to show affection, and he flinched away from even the slightest contact; though sometimes it may have been what he most needed. Combeferre doubted that he had even ever shared a friendly embrace with the younger man.

With that thought in mind, Combeferre eased himself across the carriage and sat close to the other man, reaching an arm around his shoulders and preparing himself for the tongue-lashing he would likely receive when the boy woke up.

000

Enjolras opened his eyes as the carriage rolled to a stop, feeling an unusual amount of comfort for falling asleep in a bumpy fiacre. When he realized how close Combeferre was and the position that they were in, the part of him that his parents had raised was about ready to give the older man a piece of his mind, but the more human side of him realized with a bit of a shock that it felt…nice to have somebody hold him.

He wished he could tell his friend why they had left so suddenly, but he had been betrayed by somebody he had trusted with his life and, if it were possible, had closed himself up even more to the world and people around him. It felt safer to know that you had only yourself to depend on. That way, nobody could hurt you.

Not that he thought André would ever betray him. The would-be surgeon was quite possible that best thing to have ever happened to him. Personality—wise, they were polar opposites, but that had never seemed to hinder their relationship.

Perhaps one day, when Enjolras had accepted the truth for himself…perhaps then he could tell André.

The man in question, realizing that carriage had stopped, started to get up. Enjolras quickly closed his eyes and feigned sleep, not letting the other know he had even been awake. Combeferre moved back to the other seat to gather his belongings, thankful that Enjolras had not appeared to have woken up.

As soon as Combeferre moved aside, Enjolras opened his eyes again and asked, in what he hoped was a sleep-ladened voice, "Are we there?"

Combeferre glanced at him and nodded, and together they stepped out of the fiacre and into a new life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Update time! I'm staring at my Harry Potter book now, but I took the time to type out (and write) some more of this story. Hopefully inspiration will stay with me through work and other mundane activities this summer has brought. Sigh. **

**But a big thank-you to all my reviewers; you make writing worth it:)**

**So here is the next chapter! I hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Les Miz. However, I do now own "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." And I'm in possession of a Les Miz student version libretto. **

**Chapter Two**

It was a strange thing. Combeferre thought, to visit your old neighbourhood.

The street had changed little in nine years; the houses looked the same. _His _house looked the same.

Glancing at the house beside, he realized that he still felt guilty about not telling his childhood friend that they were moving, but that was all in the past, now.

Chances were that François would hardly remember him anymore, if indeed he remembered him at all.

Like himself and Enjolras, he and François could no have been more different. As a child, Combeferre had always had his nose in a book. He was a tad shy, he supposed, but very well-behaved.

François, on the other hand, lived to be noticed. And he had a knack for getting into trouble and then getting out of it again by way of his infectious personality and charming smile.

To see him now…no doubt drinking and carousing with women held high importance in his life. He had also had the uncanny ability to make everything into a joke.

But if Combeferre were to run into him, in that instant, how would he react?

"You do realize that I'm rather annoyed with you."

Well, that _was _plausible, but…wait. Combeferre blinked, snapping out of his reverie to realize that the last comment was certainly _not _from his thoughts. He turned around, trying not to appear nervous, as he appraised the man facing him.

He was taller than Combeferre, but that was hardly remarkable. His hair was so dark a brown you could almost call it black, and he had sea-grey eyes that held unquestionable mischief. He had an easy stance; his arms were folded in front of him and one eyebrow was slightly raised.

François Courfeyrac, then. Definitely François Courfeyrac.

"François," Combeferre nodded, trying to act natural.

"Well, well, well. André Combeferre. I must admit, I'm a tad surprised to see you here and now after you so rudely abandoned me nine years ago." There was a fair deal of sarcasm in his tone, Combeferre thought.

"Hardly 'abandoned,' François. You were on holiday at the time, and I…"

"And _there _lies the difference between us, _mon ami_. You make excuses, whereas I get myself out of scrapes by telling the truth."

"Or part of it," Combeferre snorted, guessing that his friend was little changed.

"Even after all these years, you have so little faith that I not mended my erroneous ways?" Courfeyrac looked up in mock astonishment before smiling. "You know me too well."

"Some things will never change. That happens to be one of them."

Courfeyrac's smile widened. "Perceptive as always, I see." He strode forward to embrace the other man. Pulling back to study him, he jibed, "And I have found _another _thing that has not changed: your height."

"And I see your tongue is as sharp as ever," Combeferre retorted, easily falling back into the friendly banter the two had always engaged in as children. He would never dare to try any sort of petty insults with Enjolras, but Courfeyrac was a different breed. This fact slightly worried Combeferre, for when Enjolras and Courfeyrac met; as surely they had to; he was fairly certain that Enjolras would not take kindly to Francois' lack of tact.

"But, come!" Courfeyrac placed an arm around the shorter man's shoulders and wheeled him around, heading back down the street. "What brings you to Paris?"

"To be honest, I can't say I know. A friend of mine is having some family trouble, and I always promised him I'd come to Paris when he did. I just did not expect it to happen so quickly," Combeferre looked down.

"Ah. Family trouble. Horrible thing. Don't suppose this friend of yours has a name?"

"Enjolras."

Courfeyrac stopped short. "Come again?"

Combeferre shot him a perplexed look. "What? Enjolras?"

"As in, practically-next-in-line-for-the-throne Enjolras?"

"François, hardly!" Combeferre laughed. "Why, there are probably twenty people who would claim the throne before he got a chance!"

Courfeyrac bit his lip, apparently unsure of what to say. "I'm not sure I should be the one to tell you this, but…he's in great danger if word leaks out who he is. Oh, not among the university crowd; he'll be safe enough as a student, but on the streets…he's a dead man, André."

"What? Why?"

"Well…ah…you probably have not been in the city long enough to notice, but…let's just say the king is not the most popular man in France at the moment," Courfeyrac explained in an undertone. "You see, Paris is home to many whom we would view as having no other home. The king, in all his wisdom, sees this as a glaring black mark on the city. But instead of providing them with money to move them up, he would rather _re_move them…in any way possible.

"Needless to say, there are many who would like to see him and his descendants likewise removed, and would see the Republic restored."

Combeferre glanced at his friend in obvious disbelief. "But you…you would not think of rebelling?"

"I've more than thought about it, 'Ferre." The use of his childhood nickname made Combeferre smile, but Courfeyrac was certainly not in a joking mood. "You'd have to talk to Tristan to get the whole story."

"Tristan?"

"Friend of mine. There was a funeral last year which many of the lower class attended; some Lallemand or such; but the Guard would not let them close. It turned into a bloody riot; I couldn't even guess how many civilians were killed. But Tristan was there, and since then he has been drumming up support for a _coup _of sorts. An émeute, 'though he would go so far as to term it a 'revolution.' This friend of yours…does the king know him by sight?" Courfeyrac started walking again, but he had gotten a familiar gleam in his eye that told Combeferre an idea had popped into his head, and the problem with François' ideas were that while he thought they were brilliant, there was often glaring flaws in them.

"I don't believe he has ever met the king."

"Well, that's pleasant news! Now…is there anything…_remarkable _about him?"

"If you saw him once you'd never forget him, if that's what you mean."

"Excellent! Does he look like his parents?"

"Not in the least. But why so curious?"

"Our revolution, as it were, needs a leader. Somebody people will respect and want to follow; somebody they will remember for years," Courfeyrac was obviously excited about the idea. "And what would be a bigger blow to the kind than if it were a relative?"

"Hold on! You want us to _join _you?"

"Whyever not?"

"Well, for one thing, I'll need proof that the people _want _change, and for another…can't this be resolved without barricades and bloodshed?" Combeferre crossed his arms.

"Well, they won't talk to us, if that's what your suggesting. Will you promise to think about it, at least? We could use someone with your intelligence and common sense."

So _now _he was resorting to flattery! But Combeferre _had _noticed the growing disparity, even close to home with the peasant farmers.

However, something was still bothering him… "If you say the people would sooner shoot Enjolras than look at him, why would they accept him as a leader?"

"Because a leader is the only way he _will _be accepted," Courfeyrac replied. "You see, any old person can say they're a part of us and then leave as soon as trouble starts, but he if he was _leading _us…he could not just walk out or tell the other side what we plan. Not without great risk to his own well-being. How old is he?"

"Not old enough. Give him a few years; see what he thinks. Can you afford to wait that long?"

"I suppose we have little choice, in that case."

"Well, this is it," Combeferre came to a halt in front of an obviously lavish building.

"You live _here?_" Courfeyrac's eyes were wide.

"_He _lives here. I'm staying until I find my own place." Combeferre turned, asking a question that had been on his mind for a while. "But what of your parents, François? You have mentioned nothing of your family."

"They saw how unpleasant the city had become and bought a little cottage in Calais. I stayed because I hardly saw how running away solved anything. And aside from all of that…Paris is my home."

"Mine too, I suppose, no matter how long I have been away.

"But before we go in…there are a few things I have to warn you about."

"What…kinds of things?"

"I just have to tell you that you and Enjolras will not have very…harmonious personalities. So no jokes or sarcastic jibes; he won't find it funny and will probably take offense," Combeferre cautioned.

"Well, who shoved a stick up _his…_"

"And don't touch him. He hates being touched."

"And you are friends with him _why?_"

"He's…a good person," Combeferre sighed. "A really good person. He just…was raised in a different environment. I'm hoping that here, without his parents smothering him, he will start to loosen up." He reached to put a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder. "I _really _want you to get along. You're my best friends…my only friends, I suppose…"

"Don't worry so much, André. You know me; I can be downright charming."

"Yes, but I don't think what works on women will have quite the same effect on him," Combeferre smiled.

"Oh, I would not be so sure of that. I have yet to meet a person, man or woman, who did not eventually succumb to my charms," Courfeyrac flashed a smile.

"You haven't met me, then?"

"You wait, André. You haven't seen the half of what François de Courfeyrac can do."

"And I'm not sure I want to. But tell me, François, how many of Paris' brothels have you been to?" He said it lightly, but Courfeyrac reacted in a way he never could have anticipated.

He took a step back, a wounded look coming into his eyes. "Is that all you consider me to be, then? A rabble-rouser and a pimp?"

Combeferre was a little taken aback by this reaction; from his earlier comments, he would have thought Courfeyrac unashamed and even…proud of what and who he was. "No, I didn't…"

"Forget it, André. Just…forget we ever met today. I have to go…" he backed down the stairs.

"Wait!" Combeferre grabbed his arm, spinning him around. "Tell me what's wrong."

Courfeyrac made a sound as if he were choking back a sob before replying. "The…company I found myself in after my parents left was not the best, to be sure, but I was alone for the first time with few friends and a full pocket. I suppose I had had a bit too much to drink one night and woke up in a strange flat with a woman I did not know.

"Of course, word got around among the men, and soon they expected the same of me all the time. They always found…questionable women to send home with me, but I never did anything…I'm not the type, André, I swear! I gave them their money and they gave me a promise not to tell…and so now I've got a bit of a 'reputation.'

"While those men are fighting for a good cause, they are not good men. I don't want to stay around them, so I was hoping that, if you were to agree with me, I would not have to go near them but could still be fighting for a republic." Courfeyrac blinked, obviously fighting back tears, and Combeferre sat down on the stairs and motioned the other man to sit as well.

"So this…is all an act?"

"Oh, no. No, I pride myself on how well I get along with women, but a mistress is somewhat different than a whore," he laughed bitterly. "Even those women who I'm with for no more than one night; I like to think it is due to mutual attraction…it has to be, I suppose, because I'm certainly not squandering my savings on…pleasurable company. Do you…still hate me?"

"I never hated you. I wanted to make sure you were still a good man and you are. You have morals…well, at least _some _morals." He was pleased to see that get a small grin from Courfeyrac. "And if you want to know…I can keep a secret, too."

"Thank you." Courfeyrac angrily scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. "I'm all right now. And you know, André, you're not such a bad man yourself. A small man, but.."

"Stop it."

The two stared at each other for a moment before Courfeyrac shifted closer to Combeferre and grabbed him in a hug. "It's good to have you back, _mon frere_."

"It's good to _be _back," Combeferre countered, returning the embrace.

And he realized that he meant it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Time for an update! Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers, it makes me feel good to know that people appreciate this story, and I hope that it keeps living up to your expectations! Writing is slow right now, as I'm working on another project, as well, and the ideas for this one aren't coming as fast as I would like, but I have some time off in the next month where hopefully I can concentrate more on writing and less on work. **

**But enough rambling: Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miz. **

**Chapter Three**

"Paris is restless. I can feel it; have felt it ever since I set foot in the city."

Courfeyrac marvelled at the young man before him for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes. Combeferre was right; he was unlike anybody he had ever met.

"The city _is _restless," Courfeyrac agreed, trying for once in his life to be as serious as the boy facing him.

Which might have been easier had Combeferre warned him of the boy's beauty. André had said that one who met him would never forget him after, but he had failed to mention why.

Enjolras was simply angelically beautiful. He was aesthetically perfect in every way Courfeyrac could see. It was if the greatest sculptor in the world had just brought their masterpiece to life.

Although, as far as Courfeyrac could tell, he still had the personality of a statue.

Regardless, Courfeyrac found it hard to stop from staring, and even harder not to see for himself whether that alabaster skin was really flesh and not marble.

"Why? What could plague her so?"

The boy turned and Courfeyrac found himself staring into the most vibrant pair of blue eyes he had ever seen.

"Ah…" Choosing to ignore the query, Courfeyrac instead disregarded Combeferre's earlier caution about the lad and slung an arm about the lad, turning him away from the window. "Can I tell you something?" And without waiting for an approval, Courfeyrac continued, "You'll have to watch yourself whenever you set foot outside this building. Women who see you are going to want to take you home with them. For that matter, anyone with a heartbeat is going to want to take you home with them."

"What? Why?" Enjolras looked confused.

"Now, I know you've never been around girls your age, or even many boys your age, but the fact of the matter is that you are downright beautiful," Courfeyrac explained.

"…I am?..."

"You look like a god. People are going to notice," Courfeyrac smiled.

"But surely _you _are handsome enou…"

"Very true. But I, alas, am not perfect. Humans always seek to possess what they cannot attain; and perfection is somewhat unattainable; but you have got to be the most physically flawless man in the world." Now Courfeyrac was indeed serious. "That is, if you are even human," he added in an undertone.

"Pardon me?"

"Permit me?" Courfeyrac did not elaborate.

"…Permit you to do what?"

"André tells me that you are somewhat against being touched, and as I have already invaded your privacy once, I figure the only decent thing to do is to ask before I do it again," he shrugged.

"André has to stop treating me like a child," Enjolras countered. "But I can hardly say no after you've been so polite."

Combeferre snorted. "François? Polite? Now _there's _something I'd like to see."

"Hush. I can be anything I want to be. Except maybe as short as you." Ignoring Combeferre's groan, he turned back to Enjolras and raised his hand. Enjolras involuntarily tensed, but Courfeyrac seemed to ignore this and ran his fingers lightly down the side of the younger man's face, coming to rest against his neck. "Well I'll be. You're flesh and blood after all."

"You thought otherwise?" Enjolras was surprised to find, again, that being touched did not make him nearly as uncomfortable as he had been led to believe.

"Well, I had considered the possibility of you being a statue magically brought to life, but I guess you _are _only a human. An insanely attractive one, but a human nonetheless."

Combeferre glanced down, seemingly I intent on studying the floor. Back in the country, the physical differences between himself and Enjolras had hardly mattered, but now that they were in Paris, Enjolras would be getting plenty of attention, and Combeferre had a feeling that he was going to have to accept the fact that he was rather plain-looking.

His hair was so unruly that unless he always kept it tied back it would flare out and make him look like some type of mad scientist; he was incredibly short; and his eyes could not be described by any color more flattering than "mud." He needed to wear glasses all the time, and that gave him the appearance of a bookworm. Not the type of man that, had he even wanted it, anybody would flock to or listen to.

"But I fail to see what me being human has to do with Paris being discontent," Enjolras continued.

"It does, if indirectly. But I shall have to ask you in advance to forgive my answer, for you see: I posess a complete and utter lack of tact. The fact is that Paris has grown weary of the apparent truth that the monarchy can see it fit to give coins for their children and dogs to play with, but refuses to do little more for the poor than threaten to drive them out.

"Paris is craving a republic…a republic where the monarchy is thrown out so hard they shall never return. As this is the case, anybody with a connection to the royals is in danger. The only way I can see that you would be accepted in Paris is if you volunteered to _lead _the rebels.

"You see, there are plenty of people who want change but are unwilling to commit themselves. There are always insurrections, but we know it will be several years before we can garner enough followers to really have a chance. Having somebody as visually intimidating as you at our head would ensure mass support, however. It's just a thought…" Courfeyrac trailed off innocently as Enjolras turned his raptor gaze on him.

"I have no love for my heritage," he began, and Courfeyrac immediately thought that a voice as deep and expressive as his would be excellent for speech-making. "I have never really understood why being rich was an advantage if it did not make one a better person.

"As I said, I can feel the tension in the city. Just today, I must have seen upwards of twenty people who had nothing walk by here. It is strange, coming from our country home to this, but I agree that something must be done.

"However, I am not the type to make rash decisions. I will need to understand more of the situation first, and if I truly _am _in danger, perhaps it is best to lie low in any case. But I do not think I should have to worry; I look nothing like any of my relatives."

"Which may be for the best," Courfeyrac quipped, unable to stop himself. "For if you did, that would give the people one more reason to be envious of the nobles.

"But are you truly that willing to turn your back on your family?"

"Family?" Enjolras' voice was heavy with scorn. "My so-called family is the reason I so abruptly had to come to Paris. And what do I owe the king; he who never saw fit to even acknowledge my existence. No, I owe them nothing. I would rather see the republic restored."

"So…we can count on you, then?" Courfeyrac seemed delighted at the prospect.

"Given time," Combeferre broke in. "I hope to go down and enrol at the university tomorrow and possibly ask if there is anything Enjolras can take. I know that he is only sixteen, but…"

"Oh, don't worry about that, André. As I've said before: people love me. I'm sure I could get him into some classes. Are you interested in law?" Courfeyrac asked.

"A bit. Though I suppose one has to know justice in order to properly dispel injustice," Enjolras reasoned.

"Smart lad, this one. And you, André. Still want to be a surgeon?"

"First and foremost, yes. But I would not lament takinig some courses in philosophy either," Combeferre admitted, although he could guess how well Courfeyrac would take that.

"You have got to be the most boring man on the face of the earth."

And he was right. "We all have different interests, François. Yours are just…less sophisticated than mine."

"Can't suppose I can argue that," Courfeyrac shrugged.

000

"So? What do you think of him?" It was later that night, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were in a local tavern.

"You could have warned me about his looks!" Courfeyrac replied, draining his glass. He could hold a lot of alcohol, Combeferre thought grimly.

"I didn't think looking at another man would affect you so much." Yes, he was bitter, but that was still because of his realization that his looks were nothing to write home about.

"Who spit in your dinner?"

"Sorry. I guess I just never thought about how important physical appearance was. When it was just the two of us, it hardly mattered, but now…" he sighed.

"Oh, André. My dear man, just because you are not a god like Enjolras does not mean you are ugly," Courfeyrac smiled.

"If you pass out, I'm not carrying you home," Combeferre replied.

"Now, now. I'm serious; I think you're quite dashing," Courfeyrac grabbed another glass.

"Well thank you. My life is now complete because François de Courfeyrac thinks I'm pretty." Combeferre snapped.

"Temper, temper. You never used to be so sarcastic. And…" he lowered his mug. "I wasn't teasing."

"Oh."

"But Enjolras will, unfortunately, have to live with the fact that people are going to want to get close to him, and many will not do it for the right reasons. Men will use him to get what they want; and let me tell you, my friend, there are _plenty _of dishonourable men in Paris. Women…well, they'll want him for a different reason," Courfeyrac finished with a crafty smile.

"To bed him, you mean."

"Well, naturally. Don't look so horrified, André. He's a prize worth winning."

"Woe to the grisette who looks at him, then. His gaze can stop anyone in their tracks."

"You sound like me," Courfeyrac sighed and put down his tankard. "You've saved me, André. I had nothing to live for, and I know I kept it covered, but my so-called friends have only served to make me depressed. Until you came along, I did not know how I could turn my life around, but you have given me a reason to go on."

"Are you sure this isn't just the drink talking?" Combeferre smiled.

"As sure as I am about anything."

Something in his tone made Combeferre look up, and as their eyes met, he could tell that the other man had meant every word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Update time! I figure I'd better, because I'll be out of town for a few days, and while I now have a laptop so I'll have time to write, my grandma doesn't even have **_**cable **_**let alone an internet connection. But here's chapter four, wherein we…well, I won't give it away. You'll just have to read it. **

**And review! Thanks to all who have; it means a lot. Hope you like!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

**Chapter Four**

"Now if you be a good boy and give us all your money, we might consider letting you live."

Combeferre gulped. How did he get into these situations? Okay, so he had gotten a little lost on the way back from his first day at university, but did that warrant having three ugly, odorous, and _very _armed men surrounding him in an alley?

"I…don't have any." And he was a horrible liar, apparently. Truth was, he had brought a lot to get into the university. And, for being as smart as he was, he could not think of any way out of this one.

"Hear that, boys? He doesn't have any. Well, if that's the case, maybe we'll have to search him ourselves…"

"Leave him alone!"

Combeferre opened his eyes as a boy maybe a year younger than him come into the alley. He was of average height, and a typical working-man's hat covered his sand-colored hair. His jacket and pants were threadbare, and a long green scarf was wrapped around his neck.

"And why should we do that, _gamin?_"

"Because you owe me."

"And you would buy his life with that?" The robber looked incredulous.

"I would." There was a determined look in the boy's blue eyes.

"Fine." The bandits melted away like shadows, leaving Combeferre to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Are you alright?" The other man stepped closer.

"I am, thanks to you. I suppose _I _owe _you_, now," Combeferre smiled.

"Hardly, m'sieur. Street code does not apply to the _bourgeois. _But I should leave you alone…"

"No, wait," Combeferre laid a hand on the other's arm. The boy turned around with evident surprise. "Would you…mind walking with me? I don't want to chance getting ambushed again. My name's André Combeferre," he added.

"Sébastien Feuilly. And of course I will."

"If I may ask, what did you do to warrant them to listen to you?" Combeferre inquired as they started walking.

"I got them out of a little trouble with the _cognes_…pardon me, the police. You see, they are part of _Patron-Minette_, and to be arrested would hardly be good for their reputation," Feuilly replied.

"_Patron-Minette?"_

This obvious confusion drew a laugh from Feuilly. "I knew by looking at you that you are only recently come to Paris, but I had no inkling of _how _recently!

"_Patron-Minette _is a word that means 'morning,' but they are the most notorious gang in Paris. It would be…somewhat unwise for a peasant to be their enemy, and so I felt it was within my best interests to aid them," Feuilly replied.

"I see, and forgive me if it sounds rude for asking, but…why do you talk so like a _bourgeois_? I knew peasants back in the country, and they spoke nothing like you. Even those bandits were rather unlearned," Combeferre spoke up.

"No, I would not be offended by that query. Most poor citizens accept the widespread myth that being poor goes hand-in-hand with being ignorant. I feel that the poor are capable of bettering themselves, and so I have learned how to read and write in the hope of not only helping myself, but helping all those who feel they _cannot _help themselves," Feuilly paused. "But, at the moment, that is rather difficult to do. I have no home and little money, and I have not found one person in all of Paris that will give me a job."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find something," Combeferre tried to sound encouraging, but he received only a wan smile in response. "What sort of work would you enjoy?"

"I love to paint. It would be my dream to paint fans and sell them, but I could afford neither the fans nor the paint," Feuilly smiled sheepishly.

"If that is the case, I think I know how to pay you back…" Combeferre started.

"Why would you help a person you barely knew? And a peasant, besides?"

From the way the younger man spoke, it was evident to Combeferre that he had not been fairly treated in his life. "I could counter that by asking what motive you had in saving me, a man you did not know and a _bourgeois _besides."

"Good one," Feuilly returned. "I suppose I could not let something like that weigh on my conscience, no matter how little love I have for nobles or _bourgeois_. Now it's your turn."

"I am of the mind that men are equal and should be judged by what is in their hearts and not in their pockets. I can tell that you are a good person, and I would not want a good person to suffer," Combeferre replied.

"Ah. I have heard of your type; you wish to bring back the republic. It is a noble cause, to be sure, but as I have already alluded, the poor are rather apathetic. I do not believe that many of them will join in your fight," Feuilly explained.

"It's not something we would rush into, and I am hardly even committed, at this point, but I as well would not lament the return of a republic," Combeferre agreed. "But you have not yet told me if you accept my offer."

"How can I refuse, at this point? But I fear you are putting too much faith in a stranger."

"Hardly. I feel that you are an honest man and would not use the money for questionable deeds. But I see we have arrived," Combeferre stopped, glancing sideways at Feuilly, whose eyes looked about ready to pop out of his head. "I suppose I neglected to mention that my friend is related to the royal family."

"A noble? And yet, he wishes to fight for us?"

"He has no love for his heritage," Combeferre replied, inwardly pleased that his assumptions of Feuilly were correct. He didn't seem to be as angry at the royal family as the men that Courfeyrac had mentioned. "But I was informed that the nobles had somewhat of a death sentence over their heads?"

"Again; mostly talk. I don't think anyone would chance doing anything foolhardy; it would bring the _cognes _faster than one could blink." Feuilly was still looking somewhat warily at the building.

"Well, come on in. And then we can go out for dinner…"

"Dinner?" Feuilly scoffed. "You would of course have realized that I have no money whatsoever to pay for…"

"Of course. Which is why it shall be our treat to you."

"I…_merci, mon ami_. I have never been treated this way before…"

"Then it is high time you started feeling like you had people who wanted to be your friends," Combeferre put a hand on the doorknob and, remembering Courfeyrac's comment, he added, "Oh…and a friend of mine tells me to say this: Apparently my roommate is rather…well, you shan't believe me if I tell you," he realized, "so perhaps it would be best for us to just go inside." He opened the door and entered, Feuilly slowly trailing. "Enjolras?"

"You're late."

Combeferre turned to find Enjolras standing in the doorway leading to the sitting room with a hand on his hip, looking none-too-pleased. "I had a bit of trouble…"

"And yet you forbid me to even leave this building until, as you so bluntly put it, 'my safety is assured.' What of your own safety, André? Or am I so valuable as to warrant you being hurt just to keep me safe? I am _not _a child anymore." His voice cracked like a whip, and somehow the measured tones he was using were more intimidating than if he had been actually yelling.

Feuilly took a cautious step back, and the movement caused Enjolras to notice him. His glare softened and he moved into the room. "But you have not introduced me to your friend. And I fear I must now apologize for my words, m'sieur. You must think me a frightfully ungrateful sort."

"N-not at all, m'sieur," Feuilly managed, raising his hand in order to tip his cap in a gesture of respect. "It's just that…" he swallowed, summoning his courage. "I would rather like to think that my well-being was of concern to another. I've only ever had myself."

"Then that is understandable. For myself, being under constant scrutiny for sixteen years is starting to wear on me. But I still do not know your name, m'sieur."

"I _do _wish you'd stop calling me that," Feuilly fiddled unconsciously with the end of his scarf, "for I hardly merit that title. And my name is Sébastien Feuilly, but I tend to prefer the use of my surname," Feuilly explained.

"Well met, then, Feuilly. I am Enjolras, and I will stop calling you 'm'sieur' if you agree to stop tipping your hat at me as if I deserve some sort of respect," Enjolras countered, holding out a hand. "Agreed?"

Feuilly stared at the proffered hand for a time before slowly accepting it, saying, "Agreed."

"And I also must offer my thanks on helping André with his troubles, for I am sure that is why he brought you. I know all too well that while he is the brightest man I have ever known, he rather sadly lacks the ability to think on his feet." Combeferre began to protest, but Enjolras continued, "But I am curious: your accent is strangely different. It is barely perceptible, but you were not born in France, were you?"

Feuilly looked vaguely surprised before replying, "I must commend you on your sharp hearing, then. To me, of course, it is glaringly obvious, but I was born in Poland. We moved to Paris when I was young, and my parents succumbed to an unknown illness. My younger brother Amaury was killed by bandits mere years later, and so that left me."

Combeferre shot a look of obvious sympathy toward the urchin, but Feuilly's tone was neither angry nor mournful. It was rather the tone of one who had long ago accepted the truth and who would not let that fact faze them any longer. Not for the first time, Combeferre wondered how many people in the city had similar stories.

000

He couldn't sleep. You would think that after a life sleeping on the streets being in a bed would ensure a good rest, but ironically he could not seem to find any.

The clock struck one and, deciding that sleep was not an option, Feuilly got out of the bed and walked into the main room, pausing as he spotted Enjolras seated on the broad windowsill.

He could see what Combeferre had tried to warn him about, but he found the façade of stoniness the boy put out somewhat diminished the beauty he so obviously possessed.

However, now, in the moonlight, his perfect features seemed softened and highlighted. His eyes reflected the pale light, but they were now warm and expressive; a strange look of longing was evident in every line of his body. He was confused about his purpose, Feuilly knew; he felt as if his first sixteen years had been essentially for nothing.

Feuilly absently reached to run a hand through his hair, amazed at the feel of it being clean…truly clean, not just washed in rainwater. He had even dared to look at himself in a mirror after his bath, and been undoubtedly astonished to realize that, under all the dirt, he was rather respectable and…if he would have dared to admit it…rather handsome. He was also feeling better than he had in some time, what with a full stomach and the taste of expensive food still on his tongue. It was enjoyable, but the whole situation could not help but feel a little strange and uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence, and Enjolras turned slightly, smiling almost imperceptibly as he saw the freshly-cleaned peasant.

"You could not find peace, either?" His voice was softer and more melodious than it had been earlier and Feuilly could not help but think that this show of vulnerability was a rare occurrence.

"I rarely sleep at night. It is when I am forced to…well, I would rather not speak of it," Feuilly moved closer to the window.

"Come. Join me."

Even now, his request still had the obvious sound of an order, albeit a gentle one, but Feuilly nodded and climbed up beside the boy.

"I really must thank you for everything you have done for me. I can hardly say that a man like me deserves kindness…"

"And a man like me does?" Enjolras turned. "You have a heart big enough to love all of France, whereas I cannot begin to fathom what the concepts of love and even friendship are," he looked down. "Nay, you are a better person than I shall ever be."

"Have you ever stolen anything?"

Enjolras shook his head.

"What about lied to get money? Ever led anyone into a trap? Helped a criminal escape the police?" Feuilly bit his lip, trying to stem the flow of emotions that were overtaking him. He was a horrible person! And now this…this noble was trying to say he had a generous heart? The very notion was laughable! He took a deep breath and asked, in a quiet voice, "And have you ever killed someone?"

Enjolras quickly glanced up, his cerulean eyes widening as he repeated, "Killed?"

"Yes. Murdered. Because I have. I was fourteen; he was trying to steal the bread I had bought with money I found on the street, and I don't know how it happened, but I had pulled out my pocket knife and stabbed it into his chest. I felt his blood on my hands, and then he fell over, and…" Feuilly was shaking, and it took him a moment to realize he was crying. He swore he would never cry again after Amaury died; didn't think he had any tears left, but now…

Enjolras was staring at him in evident shock, and it was obvious he was at a loss. He hardly knew how to react; he was no good at comforting someone. What was one supposed to do?

"_Dieu, _I'm an awful person," Feuilly choked out, unable to stop himself from sobbing and finding that he hardly cared. He did not expect compassion; he hardly knew what the word meant; but he started as Enjolras laid a tentative hand on his arm. Almost before he realized it, he had embraced the other boy and was crying against his shoulder.

Enjolras awkwardly patted him on the back, somewhat bemused. Practically involuntarily, he found himself tightening his arms and holding the orphan close.

Feuilly realized that, from what Combeferre had described, this was probably the only time in his life Enjolras had ever embraced another person. And he was squandering it on a worthless street child! Ashamed, Feuilly began to draw back, but something stopped him.

There was a look in Enjolras' eyes of being close to finding something he had never known, and Feuilly did not have the heart to pull away. He instead rested his head on the boy's shoulder, letting out a sigh. After all, this feeling was somewhat alien to him, as well.

"So now you're holding a killer as you would a brother," he whispered, closing his eyes.

"I do not begrudge you anything, Feuilly. You did what you had to to survive."

"But did I _really _have to, Enjolras? Or did I take it too far?" Feuilly realized that he was now feeling very tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a long time.

"As I said, it does not change my opinion of you."

"Mmm." Feuilly drowsily started to pull away. "Well," he stifled a yawn. "I'm suddenly horribly tired, so I had best get back to bed before I fall asleep on you."

"If you want to stay, you can. I daresay a little contact is not going to kill me, no matter whether I like it or not," Enjolras offered, a little astounded to hear those words coming from his own mouth.

"But I would never…"

"It's fine."

Once again, the order was there. And Feuilly couldn't say he wasn't thankful, for he really did not think he had the energy to walk back to his bed. "I…thank you."

"All I would ask is that…"

"This never happened," Feuilly mumbled sleepily. "I don't really like being touched, either. But once…in a while…it…feels…"

"Nice." Enjolras finished, holding the sleeping orphan close.

And it did.


	5. Chapter 5

**So I'm heading out of town next week again, although I **_**will **_**have Internet access this time, but I figured an update was in order. Thank you to all my reviewers, you totally make my day! **

**And I start college in twelve days…**

**But my schedule's pretty here-and-there, so I should still have plenty of time to write. I hope. **

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Professor Joubert is mine, although he's such a minor thing that it hardly matters. **

**Chapter Five**

Of all the stupid questions!

Naturally, Pierre could not remember what said question _was_, but the fact remained that Professor Joubert had been droning on for the better part of two hours, now.

Glancing around the room, he saw that most of the other students were sleeping or otherwise engrossed in some equally stimulating activity.

Pierre? Pierre was studying.

And not notes.

People. Or, more precisely, _a _person. The new boy. Who, for the record, was _still paying attention! _How did he do it? Unless he was a very good actor.

Fiddling with his cane, he watched the other over his square-rimmed glasses. That is until a voice…or, more precisely, a whisper from the door made him turn.

"Pierre!" The man outside the door pointed to himself, Joubert, and a clock, and somehow managed to trip over his own feet in the process.

Stifling a laugh, Pierre nonetheless stole a glance at the clock. Quarter after noon. The man had prattled on into their lunch break! Well, that was enough of that. It was time to take action.

Pierre cleared his throat before conveniently interrupting Joubert in the middle of a speech. "Professor!"

Joubert, noticing as if for the first time that others were present, replied, "Yes?"

"Ah, sir, I was wondering if you would…that is, I'm feeling very light-headed and feverish, and…and I can't see straight, it seems, but my hands are really cold and I…am I going to die?" Really quite good, Pierre thought, especially since he had managed to make his voice higher and more anxious by the end.

Joubert let out a resigned sigh. "M'sieur…oh, look at the time! Lunch is nearly a quarter gone! I shall see you all tomorrow. Dismissed!"

At the word 'dismissed,' all those who were 'sleeping' had suddenly made a dash for the door, managing to knock over Pierre's friend in the process. Shaking his head, Pierre followed and extended a hand to help the other man up. "Really, Eagle, you _must _learn not to get in the path of hungry medical students," he reprimanded, blue eyes laughing.

"Yes, well, I had no idea Joubert was capable of such speeds," the other returned. "But you should have seen me this morning, Pierre! It was bloody brilliant! I was running because I was somewhat late for class, and I managed to trip over…something, but the point is that I skidded about twenty feet and right through the classroom door; just in time to yell 'Present!' I think Blondeau was a little disappointed; he was about ready to erase me."

"Bloody brilliant, indeed," Pierre gave a tight-lipped smile, his gaze sweeping over his companion. Though merely nineteen, only a thin covering of white-blonde hair covered his head. No doubt he would be bald by the time he was twenty-five. "But I believe we should hurry if we want a decent meal. Our lunch hour has been regrettably cut short."

Moving quickly to a nearby café, the two sat down at a table and ordered some lunch. Glancing around, Pierre noticed the man from his class sitting alone at a nearby table. He walked over, moving to address the other. "M'sieur?"

The man looked up as Pierre continued, "I believe we are in the same medical class, and I was wondering if you would like to come sit with us. My name is Pierre Joly."

"André Combeferre. And I believe I will accept your offer. My friend was supposed to join me for lunch, but I fear he is easily distracted."

Walking back, Pierre introduced his companion. "And this is my friend…erm, I think I'll let him introduce himself, for I really have no idea what name he would prefer to go by. But this is André Combeferre, my classmate."

"Well met, André. And as for myself, my real name is L'aigle de Meaux, but it is often shortened to Lesgles, and most people just tend to call me Bossuet. But I have no preference," Bossuet shrugged.

"I suppose I must thank you for interrupting Professor Joubert today," Combeferre put in. "If you had not, I fear to think how long he would have droned on."

"Oh, it was nothing. Joubert is used to me doing things of that nature. I'm a…" he lowered his voice, "…bit of a hypochondriac, you see."

"A _bit?_," Bossuet snorted. "If there is a _day_, Joly…a _day_ that goes by without you claiming some illness, I would be amazed."

"And if there were a day that went by when you did not trip over your own feet, _I _would be amazed," Joly countered; thinking, as he often did, about the day he and Bossuet first met.

It was less than a year before, and Joly was stepping out of his flat to go for breakfast when he noticed a man sitting on his front steps. The other stood up. "Hello! My name is L'aigle de Meaux. I am new in Paris and, regrettably, have nowhere to live. So I had hoped that I could move in here!"

"Ah…" Joly had blinked, wondering how, out of all the places in Paris, this man had chosen his apartment.

"Oh, good! I promise I won't be here for more than a few days…" he walked through the door, managing somehow to trip over the doorframe and end up sprawled on the floor.

Joly had attempted to stifle a laugh as the other had added, "And did I mention that I'm _horribly _unlucky?"

Well, that had been ten months ago, yet Bossuet had not moved out, and the two had become firm friends.

But Joly directed his attention back to the conversation at hand.

"This friend of yours…what is he studying?"

"Law."

"Really?" Bossuet leaned forward. "Well, so am I! Chances are I know the fellow, then. Has he got a name?"

"François Courfeyrac."

Joly's eyes narrowed, and he subconsciously reached to adjust his glasses. "He has quite the…reputation, does he not?"

Combeferre looked mildly surprised, but then he smiled. "I assure you, gentlemen, that that is all it is: a reputation."

"So, he doesn't sleep with a different woman every night?" Now Bossuet looked intrigued.

"Heavens, no! Granted, he _is _a bit of a womanizer, but…"

"You wouldn't be referring to me now, would you, André?"

Joly looked up at Courfeyrac, seeing immediately where such assumptions might have come from. There was an undoubtable air of confidence, unabashedness, and waywardness about him, and he certainly wasn't hard to look at.

"And what if I was? Would you deny it?" Combeferre returned mildly.

"How could I deny anything so flattering?" Courfeyrac's storm-grey eyes widened in mock horror. "Alas, gentlemen, true or not, it seems that my reputation has preceded me. So it is apparent that you know who I am, but you gentlemen have not yet introduced yourselves," Courfeyrac pulled up a chair as the others did.

"Tell me, François, how goes the effort of getting my acquaintance into your classes?" Combeferre asked.

"Well enough, I suppose. As I said, he is young, and that causes scepticism, but I am hopeful. Dear angel is going stir-crazy, is he?" Courfeyrac grinned; a smile that would make any woman blush, Joly noticed.

"Rather. He's a tad hard to handle when he's being told what to do."

Joly wondered who they were referring to, but decided it really was none of his business as a wave as dizzying nausea swept through him. Trying to disguise it by absently fiddling with his cravat, he nonetheless knew that he would need to confide in somebody…before something worse happened.

000

"Can I tell you something?"

This was the question he put to Combeferre a couple of weeks later. He had come to trust the man and recognized that he had considerable knowledge when it came to human anatomy.

"Naturally."

"Will you promise not to tell anybody else?"

"If that is what you wish."

"Good. Thank you."

They were seated in the University Library, and, looking around to make sure nobody was near enough to hear, Joly leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"It's just that…somebody has got to know, in case the worst should happen in class. And I trust you to take this seriously." He was hedging, he knew, but a part of him was still somewhat reluctant to admit such an obvious weakness.

"Go on."

"I suppose there's nothing for it, then. I'm an epileptic." He paused, trying to anticipate the reaction he would get.

"…You are?" Combeferre's face was unreadable. "For how long?"

"I had my first seizure when I was around five. They happened quite regularly for about four years, and then…they stopped. I knew I hadn't grown out of it; there is no cure, after all, but lately it seems as if one might recur at any time.

"I get these flashes of nausea and dizziness at least twice a day now, and I just can't help feeling that I may have an attack soon. Of course, having asthma doesn't help, for it obstructs my breathing, but I thought it was in my best interest to confide in somebody," Joly finished, aware that he was speaking rather rapidly.

Combeferre blinked, obviously a tad bewildered. "Well…thank you for telling me. But if, God forbid, one should come on while in school, what am I supposed to do?"

"And that's just the question, isn't it?" Joly smiled. "You see, what I fear most is that people _will _try to help me, and that would only make things worse. The best thing to do is just to leave me alone; they don't last for long," he explained.

"I see. But…no-one else knows of this? What if one is to occur while you are at home?"

Joly sighed. "I take my chances. I know Bossuet's intentions are good, but even if I told him, he would more-than-likely forget and probably end up hurting himself _and _me in the process," he smiled grimly. "But I should go; no doubt I've kept you too long already." Picking up his cane, he nodded and walked out of the library, feeling somewhat better about everything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Update time! A HUGE thank you to everyone that's reviewed so far; I'm glad that the story is meeting your expectations! Here's the next chapter. We don't meet anyone new this time, except for one character who I could claim as my own but since he is nameless it hardly matters, but some important plot stuff occurs. And there are mentions of another character. **

**But anyway, enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. Boo. **

**Chapter Six**

Winter that year was brutal. Come November, there was hardly a day where the temperature did not dip below freezing and there was a new blanket of snow every week.

"The King will be pleased," Enjolras commented one day, his eyes stony. "Those on the streets won't long survive this weather."

This thought was in Combeferre's mind as he walked home from having dinner with Courfeyrac one snowy December evening. Courfeyrac was still, of course, trying to get Enjolras and himself to join in their grand cause, but Combeferre maintained that Enjolras was far too young to be the great leader that Courfeyrac envisioned him as, and he himself certainly wasn't going to force the boy into anything.

The promise of a warm fire when he got to the apartment was certainly welcome, but he couldn't help but marvel at how picturesque the lightly falling snow was.

Had he not stopped to admire the snow, he might not have noticed the man huddled in a doorway, shivering madly and wrapped in nothing more than a patched blanket. This was hardly unusual in Paris, of course, but there was something…familiar about this person.

Bending down close to the other, he asked in a quiet voice, "Feuilly?"

The man glanced up quickly, his eyes wide. "A-André. F-fancy seeing y-you here," he forced out, trying to draw the blankets closer.

"Can you get up?" Combeferre knew what prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures could do to a body, and loss of mobility was usually a sign of something serious.

"Doubt it. I…" he cut off, his teeth chattering.

"You're coming with me, then," Combeferre replied.

"I c-couldn't p-possibly…"

"I won't hear of it, Feuilly. If you stay out here much longer, you're going to die."

"And w-who would c-care? I'm a n-nobody," Feuilly whispered.

"You are certainly _not _a nobody," Combeferre retorted, realizing then that this could all be discussed in better circumstances. "But none of this matters. We have to get you inside…quickly." Bending down, he picked up the orphan, marvelling at how easily he could lift the other man.

Of course, that probably meant that Feuilly was highly malnourished, but it was impossible to tell with the way he was wrapped up.

Combeferre rapidly made his way back to the apartment and pounded on the door. "Enjolras!"

It was a few moments before the door opened, and Enjolras gave Combeferre an annoyed glance before he realized who the other man was carrying. "Well, don't just stand there, André. Get him in!"

Combeferre stepped through the door as Enjolras pulled a chair close to the fireplace. Placing Feuilly in the chair, Combeferre motioned Enjolras into the adjoining room, aware that he could not do much more for Feuilly besides keep him warm.

"Where did you find him?" Enjolras had obviously been preoccupied; his hair was tousled, his cravat was hanging loose around his neck, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned.

True to Courfeyrac's word, he had gotten Enjolras in to the University, but the boy seemed to think that he had to work twice as hard as he actually needed to in order to 'prove himself.'

"Not far away. I don't know how long he's been outside, but he doesn't look good."

Enjolras sighed, messing up his hair even more by running a hand through it. "It's getting worse, André. I'm ashamed every day to call myself part of the royal family."

"Don't be. It was hardly your fault you were born into that life," Combeferre replied. "But there's no time for this now. I have to look at Feuilly."

"Go, then. Can I do anything?"

"Bring some extra blankets. That's about all we _can _do. The rest is out of our hands."

He walked back into the living room, noticing with some relief that Feuilly was now alert and had stopped shaking. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Warmer. But I fear I'm imposing on you again."

"Nonsense. We want to do all that we can to help anyone we can," Combeferre smiled. "And right now, we want to make sure that you don't die on us."

"Indeed." Enjolras walked back in with an armful of blankets.

"Thank you." Feuilly accepted the blankets gratefully and pulled them around himself.

"Of course. Now, get some rest. You look like you haven't been sleeping well."

"No; I know enough that when a person goes to sleep in extreme cold, they're likely to not wake up again. But I fear I have to apologize for what I've done."

Combeferre started to protest, but Feuilly held up a hand. "Wait. Hear me out, first. I used the money you gave me to buy fans and paints, and I even managed to make a respectable amount of money. However, among my comrades, somebody who can better themselves is perceived as a threat. _Patron-Minette_, especially, think that they are the so-called 'law' among the urchins, and I fear they were already harbouring some resentment toward me because of what happened the day I met you," he turned to Combeferre. "Apparently one of them saw where I hid my supplied, for one morning all my fans were destroyed, my paints were spilled out, and most of my money, save for that little amount I had on my person, was gone." He gave a scathing laugh. "Although I suppose I should be thankful that they didn't do worse to me."

"They as good as killed you," Enjolras replied harshly. "My God, is everyone untrustworthy? The king won't do anything for the poor, and the poor are squabbling amongst themselves. We can't depend on anyone to do anything to help. Who is it left to?"

"Us."

"So it would seem. But we can discuss this all in the morning." He nodded, turned on his heel, and walked out.

"Are you sure you'll be okay for the night?"

"I'm _fine, _André," Feuilly smiled. "You don't have to baby me."

Combeferre was still somewhat unconvinced but he bade Feuilly good night and left, following Enjolras. Entering the bedroom, he said, "Getting angry won't solve anything. I know it's unfair, and I know he deserves better, but what are we supposed to do?"

"Find him a place to live, of course." This was stated as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

"Find…"

"Yes, a place he can afford. You know we can't abandon him now."

"No, of course not, but if I may ask…why are you so concerned?"

Enjolras sighed, and when he looked up again his expression was sombre. "It's nothing, really. And it's late. I'm going to bed."

As he walked out, Combeferre had the strange idea that somehow his friend's protectiveness of Feuilly had something to do with what happened in his family…

But that was preposterous, of course. Combeferre yawned, deciding that maybe he could think clearer in the morning.

000

"You had no idea how hard it would be, did you?"

"Well, maybe if someone allowed me out of the _house _more often…"

"Come off it. He'll be angry enough as it is that we're searching for a place without telling him," Combeferre took a sip of his coffee.

"I know. I just…thought it would be easier in a city this size to find an inexpensive place to rent," Enjolras sighed.

"We can keep looking; it's not even noon. He'll be asleep for a good while yet," Combeferre smiled.

"Right. Let's go."

He was changing. The thought seemed to come out of nowhere, but Combeferre realized it was true. Enjolras had always been the epitome of a perfect child: he spoke right, dressed right, acted right…he did everything the proper way.

Especially the clothing. His parents had always forced him into outfits that made him look regal but were doubtless horribly constricting; to look at him now, his parents would probably die of shock.

He was wearing black pants and boots; that was normal enough, but he had recently invested in a black form-fitting waistcoat for the winter, and the excess of dark fabric made his fair skin and hair stand out all the more.

Combeferre had hardly failed to notice that every young woman who passed them stopped as if hitting an invisible wall and turned to stare, even if Enjolras seemed oblivious to the attention he was getting.

A few blocks away, an old but freshly-painted apartment came into view; a sign on the door proclaimed, "For Rent."

Entering the building, they were greeted by a man who was undoubtedly the landlord. He was shorter than Combeferre, with nervous, darting eyes, and a layer of dust seemed to hang from his clothes. He reminded Combeferre of a rat, but this was not the time to get particular.

"And what can I do for m'sieurs?" The man's voice was high and reedy.

"We notice you have rooms for rent."

They had decided early on that Combeferre would do the bargaining, because Enjolras had a very thin patience boundary.

"Indeed; indeed. But surely two finely-dressed and no doubt wealthy gentlemen like yourselves would not want to reside here…" his eyes had lit up at the word 'wealthy,' and Combeferre found it mildly disconcerting.

"Oh, it's not for us. It's for a friend."

The man's eyes dropped, but a second later he looked up again, the fake smile again firmly in place. "Well, how much is this friend of m'sieurs willing to pay?"

"How much will you take?" Combeferre crossed his arms.

"Ah, M'sieur is wise! M'sieur is letting me make the first move!"

"So make it," Enjolras muttered under his breath, but Combeferre turned sharply and shook his head once.

"Since m'sieurs have asked so nicely…three francs a week."

Combeferre was mildly surprised; three francs was indeed a rare price, but he hardly wanted to seem overly eager.

"That's very kind, but I fear our friend has next to nothing…"

The other man grimaced, but added, "Two francs, then, until he can afford three. But that is my final offer: we all must make a living, after all."

"Done." Combeferre shook hands with the man and he backed into the building, bowing all the way.

"Hit some luck, there," Combeferre commented as the two walked outside.

"Indeed. I don't like the man, though. I half-expect him to follow us home and try to rob us."

"As so I, so let's prevent said following."

"How do you propose we do that?"

"Rent a fiacre and do some sightseeing, of course. You said you wanted to see Paris, did you not?"

Enjolras nodded, glad that he was finally getting to spend some time out of the house.

000

"You did _what?_"

"Calm down! We couldn't very well leave you like _this_. One more blizzard and you would have been beyond help," Combeferre's tone was measured and even, and he took the time while he was speaking to study the man facing him.

At night, he had not gotten a good look glimpse of the younger man, but now he could clearly see how emaciated the other had become.

His eyes were sunken and bore dark circles from sleepless nights, and they possessed a haunted, world-weary look that had not been there mere months before.

His skin was also deathly pale…unnaturally so; as if he did not have quite enough pigment in his body.

He balked under the scrutiny, no doubt aware of how he looked, and with a skeletal hand reached up and adjusted the well-worn cap covering his sandy hair.

"I'm sorry. You're right, of course, and I appreciate it. I guess I'm still not thinking clearly," he pulled the blanket closer.

"No harm done. But I have to run to the University to check out a book…I've got a big practical tomorrow. I'll be back in a while," Combeferre explained before heading back out.

As he left, Enjolras pulled the other armchair forward and faced Feuilly. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, I don't think I'm going to die…but I can't seem to warm myself up properly. But I've seen worse…been through worse, I suppose," he shrugged, his nonchalance proving how hard his life had been.

Enjolras paused, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, before asking, "Have you ever heard of a man named Jean Prouvaire?"

"What urchin in Paris hasn't?" Feuilly glanced up, a smile coming to his gaunt features. "A man who had nothing but worked incredibly hard and is now one of the richest non-nobles in France! His story is an inspiration for all of us," Feuilly explained. "Why? Do you know him?"

"He came to our manor once with his son. I just have to wonder why," Enjolras sighed.

"Why what?" Feuilly asked, turning his head slightly.

"If he could make his way up with a little hard work and dedication, why do the poor resent those who try to better themselves? Why do they steal and lie when they know honest work pays off?" The question was asked with complete seriousness, although Feuilly knew the answer right away.

With a rueful smile, he replied, "Because hard work takes too long."


	7. Chapter 7

**Once again, thank you SOOOO much for your wonderful reviews! Unfortunately, this chapter was written when I was suffering a severe case of writer's block, so if the quality is somewhat lacking, I apologize in advance for that. But anyway, enjoy! **

**Oh, and my inspiration has now been renewed because my European History class has decided to focus our attention this semester on revolutions and why they occur, so everything is relating to Les Miz again. Hooray for random inspiration! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. **

**Chapter Seven**

"That man is out there again, Pierre!"

"So invite him in. Or better yet, tell him to invite himself in. After all, that's what _you _did," Joly barely glanced up from the paper he was frantically scribbling out.

"I take offence to that!"

His only response was a slight grunt from the medical student, so with a shout of, "I'm borrowing some money!" Bossuet left again, pausing only to drop a few coins into the hat of the seemingly ever-present beggar.

He was thankful, though, for without Joly's kindness, chances are he would be no better off than the urchins. And Pierre was far too kind…every two months or so, Bossuet would feel guilty for imposing and leave to find his own place. Inevitably, within a few days he would return, and Joly would accept his reappearance with little more than a nod and a smile.

He didn't deserve Pierre; anyone else would have kicked him out on the first day, but Joly put up with his clumsiness and perpetual bad luck with nary a complaint.

That being said, it wasn't like Joly was perfect himself, but Bossuet had learned to laugh at his frequent ailments and 'deathly' illnesses.

But he tried to stop thinking about that and instead focussed on where he was going: to a meeting. There had been plenty of rumors and mutterings around of late; talk of émeutes and revolutions, particularly among the law students, which was where he had heard it.

Musing, he did not see the young woman in front of him and as a result both of them ended up in the snow.

"I'm terribly sorry, mademoiselle, I was not looking…where…" his apology died in his throat.

The girl blinked, looking somewhat surprised. She had deep brown eyes and incredibly long eyelashes; her hair, though covered with a hat, was a chocolate colour and fell in waves to her shoulders. She was…stunning, but Bossuet forced himself to shake it off and instead held out a hand, which the girl accepted. Her hands were small and delicate, with long, graceful fingers, and Bossuet found himself clutching that hand for a moment longer than was truly necessary.

"Erm…ah…I hope you can forgive me, my dear. My name is L'aigle de Meuax, but mostly people call me Bossuet," Bossuet stammered out.

"I'm called Musichetta, M'sieur Bossuet, and of course you're forgiven. I fear I was hardly watching where I was walking either," she smiled. Her voice was light and musical, and he smile revealed perfectly white, even teeth. "But I fear I'm a tad rushed this morning. I do hope we can meet again!"

"Of course. I'd like that…Musichetta."

The girl smiled again and hurried off, leaving Bossuet staring after her with a bemused expression. After dreamily looking at nothing for a few moments, he shook his head and continued on.

000

"Curses." Joly flipped through all of the medical tomes he had, but he couldn't for the life of him find the proper way to…wait, _there _it was.

After hastily scribbling some notes, he stood up to put the book back, but he had hardly taken a step when a searing pain ripped through his skull.

When it subsided, he found himself collapsed on the floor; the book he had been perusing flung across the room.

Groaning, he slowly sat up, taking great care not to further aggravate his pounding head. Probably the stress of the exam tomorrow wasn't helping matters, but at this point it could hardly be denied that he was getting worse by the day.

Standing, he had to grab the desk as the room took a sickening lurch and an overwhelming sense of vertigo engulfed him.

He gingerly made his way to the large bed and collapsed on it, his shaking hands trying frantically to undo the buttons on his collar.

_When did the room get so warm? _ He finally succeeded in unbuttoning the shirt and breathed a sigh, although in reality he did not feel much better.

_What's happening to me? _ Could it be, as he had feared, that he was going to have another seizure? But if so, why wouldn't one just…come? Why did he have to endure _this?_

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he realized it was damp and sticky. Had he really been sweating that much? Oh, _Dieu_, he had to pull himself together before Bossuet got back; there was no explaining this!

However, as of yet, he was far too weak to move. Bringing his knees up, he curled himself into a ball and closed his eyes, soon drifting off into a much-needed sleep.

000

Combeferre knocked on the door, waiting for a few moments. When it seemed nobody was in, he nevertheless put his hand on the doorknob and turned, surprised to find it open. Now, he was not normally the type to go barging into somebody's home, but he was sure Joly would not mind if he just looked at the book for a minute. And after what Joly had told him…maybe it was best he should check, just in case.

Entering the apartment, he saw the book he was searching for laying open on the desk. Going over to examine it, he caught sight of the bed in the next room, and of the figure laying on it.

Stepping into the bedroom, Combeferre's eyes widened at the sight that greeted him. Pierre. He looked…horrible. And that may have even been downplaying the truth.

As if sensing another's presence, Joly stirred and attempted to sit up, but he could barely move.

Combeferre quickly crossed to the bed, sitting down and placing a gentle hand on the other's chest to still his motion.

"André?"

"Yes, it's me. Sorry about coming in unannounced, but I was at the library looking for a book and was informed that you were in possession of it," Combeferre explained quietly.

"Don't worry about…that…"Joly grimaced. "I'm just glad you're not Bossuet. What he would do if he saw me this way…" he trailed off.

"Don't talk." Combeferre brushed Joly's bangs aside, feeling the obvious fever by touching his hot forehead. Moving his hand down, he could also feel that the younger student's heartbeat was quick and erratic.

Not good. "Pierre, you should get to a doctor…"

"I've been. They tell me nothing's wrong; that it just must be side-effects of having epilepsy. Great lot of help that it," Joly laughed weakly.

"I fear that keeping this from Bossuet will not be easy."

"Not now," Joly smiled. "I feel so awful, but we have that practical tomorrow…"

"I think, as a would-be surgeon and a medical student, that the best thing for you to do right now is rest," Combeferre recommended.

"But…I have to study…"

"None of that. No doubt you've probably been studying all day and night for weeks. You're not doing yourself any favours," Combeferre responded.

"Stay with me?" Joly pushed himself up on one elbow, a glimpse of fear coming into his dark blue eyes. "If Bossuet comes home…"

"Of course."

000

Interesting. He had heard a lot of things at the meeting, but the only thing on his mind afterwards was going to tell Joly about Musichetta.

Reaching the door, he was surprised to find it locked. A bit puzzled, he knocked.

He could hear a slight scurrying inside, and then the door opened.

"Ah, you're back," André Combeferre greeted him with a smile. "Pierre and I were just finishing some last-minute studying for tomorrow."

Joly was seated on the bed, his nose in a book, but he glanced up and waved. Bossuet thought he looked pale; he had seemed more ill than ever these last few weeks; but it was probably nothing more than pre-exam anxiety.

"Pierre, I met the most wonderful girl today!" he exclaimed.

Joly glanced up again and raised an eyebrow, looking sceptical.

"I'm serious! She was beautiful…dazzling…exquisite, voice like an angel…"

"Don't suppose you managed to get her name?"

"Yes, in fact. Musichetta!" Bossuet announced this with as much importance as if he had just become the King of France.

"Good for you," Joly muttered, scanning the book again. "And the meeting? How was it?"

"Fine, I suppose. They're still having trouble drumming up support, but Tristan is a good speaker. He tends to drift, on occasion, but…" Bossuet shrugged.

"And how do _you _feel? Is it a cause worth joining?" Joly closed his book.

"I think they make a valid point, but if a revolution were to start tomorrow, would I go out and risk my life? Probably now," he admitted.

"And you, André? What's your take on all of this?" Joly asked.

"I agree with Bossuet. Fundamentally, what they are doing is good, and maybe someday in the future it will be successful, but at the moment they have no real chance of accomplishing anything," Combeferre shrugged.

"But something has to be done," Bossuet agreed. "I just feel that if they had a leader…a _real _leader, that garnering support would be much easier."

Combeferre stayed silent, unwilling to give anything of Courfeyrac's scheme away, and merely nodded.

000

"So this is the place?"

"Why? Is it not to your liking?"

"No, it's just…so much more than I've ever had. It's a tad overwhelming," Feuilly admitted.

The rat-like landlord was hovering behind them, but Enjolras ignored him.

"Thank you." Feuilly was positively beaming.

"It's nothing," Enjolras waved a hand. "I'm glad to be of help."

And with that, Feuilly had his own home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Time for an update! Sorry it's taken so long, but my wireless connexion works about as well as a car without gas (that is to say, not at all) and I've been away with NO INTERNET for a couple of days. **

**Thanks once again to all my wonderful reviewers. If I could give you all cookies, I would. I promise. But I can't, so I hope my sincere thanks will do! **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**Chapter Eight**

Two years passed in much the same way. Combeferre found a place of his own, Feuilly was making enough on his fans to afford the rent, and Bossuet came and went at Joly's; whose dizzy spells eventually ceased; whenever the mood struck him.

The murmurings of dissent were also growing, but people still seemed fearful of opposing the king, and Combeferre was no closer to discovering where he stood.

The incident that changed his mind occurred in the winter of 1826, on a cold January morning.

It was probably only about 4:30, but he was woken up by a loud banging at the door.

Shivering, he wrapped a blanket around himself and ran to the door, pulling it open to reveal a man with red hair and green eyes…and an unconscious François Courfeyrac, who looked as if he had picked a fight with the wrong person.

"Are you André Combeferre?"

"I am."

"You're a surgeon? I couldn't get much out of him before he passed out," the other admitted.

"Bring him in," Combeferre gestured to the sofa, and as the other man entered, he quickly went to fill a basin with water and fetch some towels.

From Courfeyrac's descriptions, the other man was evidently Tristan Bahorel, whose red hair and a temper to match were the result of some Irish heritage somewhere in his bloodline.

Coming back into the sitting room, he went to examine Courfeyrac while asking, "What happened?"

Tristan shrugged. "Disagreement on morals, mostly. Seems dear François decided he'd had enough of being the resident pimp and tried to stand up for himself, but the man he mouthed off to was considerably bigger and had more friends.

"I tried to stop them, but I had no desire to get pummelled into submission."

"That's understandable. It doesn't seem too bad; nothing's broken, at least; but he'll be bruised and sore for a while," Combeferre stood. "You're Tristan Bahorel?"

"I am. François has mentioned me, then?"

"He has. And I must thank you for bringing him. It shows that at least one of his friends is a good man."

"Well, I couldn't very well just leave him, now, could I? _That _would have been against what we are trying to preach, after all. 'Help the ones who can't help themselves' and all that," he waved a hand.

"It seems to me that quite a few people who claim to be your allies don't follow their own rules," Combeferre noted softly.

"True enough," Tristan heaved a sigh, sitting down in a nearby chair. "We are sadly disjointed and lacking direction at the present time. I've somewhat taken on the leadership role, even though I'm not one and certainly do not aspire to be one."

So. That made three people who had said the same thing: The snake was without a head, to use the common analogy. And it wasn't the Combeferre thought Enjolras wouldn't do it, even though Enjolras had never really had to deal with crowds, but he was somewhat worried for the boy's safety when and if it came to a full-fledged revolution.

Ultimately, though, it _was _up to Enjolras to decide, no matter how Combeferre felt.

"Has François not mentioned anyone who would be a suitable leader?"

Tristan glanced up in surprise. "He has, if only vaguely. Some friend of a friend, looks like an angel, spellbinding voice, you know how he gets. Now, if a man with those qualities actually existed…"

"He does." The words were out before Combeferre was truly sure if he wanted to say them.

"What?" Tristan looked up, evidently surprised.

"He does. He's a friend of mine, and François has been trying for two and half years to convince him to be the leader, but he's not sure if he wants that responsibility." Combeferre was a little astounded that he was saying this so eagerly, but the time was drawing near when decisions would have to be made.

"Two and a…how old is he?"

"Eighteen."

"Young, then. I could see why he would be reluctant to commit himself, but by God, if he is as wonderful as Courfeyrac suggests, we could use him in a heartbeat!" Tristan exclaimed.

"I'll talk to him, then."

"But you are…" he trailed off, allowing Combeferre to answer.

Combeferre thought about it for a minute, but soon realized that the decision had been made for him years before. "I'm in," he nodded firmly.

"Good. Always a pleasure to find new recruits." Tristan stood. "But is should be off. Are you sure he'll be fine?"

"When is he ever 'fine?'" Combeferre shook his head. "But yes; there won't be any lasting damage."

Tristan nodded and walked to the door. "Well…it was nice meeting you, André."

"Likewise," Combeferre replied, and with a jaunty wave, Tristan opened the door and left.

000

Courfeyrac woke up with a groan. He ached all over…why did he ache all over? What happened last night?

Opening his eyes, which also proved painful, he realized that he was lying on the sofa in André's apartment. Gingerly sitting up, he slowly got to his feet and staggered over to the bedroom, gripping the doorframe for support. Combeferre was seated at the desk, writing something on a piece of parchment, but he soon looked up.

"Ah, you're awake! How do you feel?"

"Bloody awful," Courfeyrac lurched to the bed and collapsed on it, moaning into the pillow.

"But the dramatics, François. You're not _that _badly hurt," Combeferre admonished.

"No, but you realize what this means, don't you? I can't go back; not after last night."

"I know. That's why I've decided it's time to take matters into our own hands," Combeferre responded.

"What do you mean?" Courfeyrac sat up.

"Well, we can form our own little society, can't we?"

"What, three of us? Fat lot of good that would do against the Guard," Courfeyrac replied sarcastically.

"More than three."

"Who else?"

"Joly and Bossuet, for starters. They're very close to coming in," Combeferre explained.

"And we only need to convince one, and the other will follow," Courfeyrac grinned.

"True enough. And…I think I know somebody else. Someone who knows firsthand what life on the streets is like," Combeferre stood.

"What? Who? Peasants don't usually bother with student groups." Courfeyrac looked confused.

"Feel up to a little trip?"

He got an over-emphasized groan in response, and walked over the grab Courfeyrac's hand to pull him up.

"Come on."

000

Some time later, they were getting out of a carriage in front of a rather old but well-kept building. Combeferre pushed open the door and strode down the hall, Courfeyrac following somewhat apprehensively.

Knocking on a door, Combeferre waited a moment before a voice called, "Come in!"

"You look scared, François," Combeferre pointed out as he turned the doorknob. "Don't be. He's really very nice."

Courfeyrac couldn't help but envision one of the big, burly, sour-faced men he had seen on street corners late at night, but he gulped and nodded.

Opening the door, he was met by a rather clean and cheery-looking room, except for one corner where it seemed a paint tornado had occurred.

"Don't mind the mess. I try to keep it under control, but sometimes it just gets away on me." The speaker stood from his chair, carefully setting a painted fan on the desk. "What brings you and your friend down here, André?"

Okay, so he wasn't big and grumpy. He looked…very calm and mild, Courfeyrac thought.

"Feuilly, this is François Courfeyrac. François, Sébastien Feuilly; an old acquaintance and a talented artist."

"You give me too much credit, André," Feuilly grinned.

"And to answer your question: we're here because we've decided it's time to join in the fight to reclaim France for the people," Combeferre explained.

"Excellent! I'm happy to help, of course."

"I expected as much. But we will need a place to meet…" Combeferre mused.

"There's one," Courfeyrac broke in. "It's called _Café Musain_; close to where you live, André; and there's a private back room we sometimes met in, but only rarely."

"Sounds good. When will the first meeting be?" Feuilly asked.

"Is next Tuesday alright? No big exams on that day?" Courfeyrac asked.

"It's fine for me. I'll talk to Pierre and Enjolras, and we can go from there," Combeferre agreed.

"Wonderful! And now that that's decided, we should no longer be tarrying in the doorway. Come in," Feuilly gestured to the well-worn but still well-maintained couch and chair. "If you don't mind me saying, François, you look as though you were on the wrong side of a fight."

"I was," Courfeyrac grimaced. "And I should know better. I'm hopeless when it comes to fighting," he grinned sheepishly.

"It's not as hard as it looked," Feuilly sat down. "There's only one real rule to it: when it gets too bad, run the other way," he grinned, and Courfeyrac returned the smile.

Things were going well, Combeferre thought happily.


	9. Chapter 9

**Update time! Figured I'd better, because I'm gone for the weekend. And now, we introduce my attempt at writing Grantaire (pats herself on the back). No, really, I can't write him to save my life, but I had to try. Another chapter where I went between severe writer's block and bursts of inspiration…**

**Anyway, thanks again for the reviews, and I hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Nope. Still not mine. **

**Chapter Nine**

The man at the table in the corner looked up grumpily as footsteps woke him from his slumber. As he watched, seven men entered the backroom and went to sit around a table. More of those revolutionary students, no doubt. He had been happy when they had vacated the café a few weeks prior, but these were men he had not seen before.

Nobody noticed him; that was normal and as it should be. He had no desire to die for some imaginary cause. Call him a cynic, but he was not willing to throw his life away so quickly.

So he was an observer. He spent most of his days in the back of the café; drunk into a stupor more often than not, but he was sober enough today.

As he looked on, one of the men, a short fellow with unruly brown hair, stood up. "Gentlemen! I want to thank you all for coming this afternoon. As all of you know, the status of the less-wealthy Parisian citizens is mostly non-existent and their standard of living is steadily decreasing. Something must be done!

"You are also more than likely aware that there are many groups of students fighting this, or at least attempting to. As many of these groups, honourable as their intentions may be, are made up of less-than-honourable men, a few of us have decided that it would be in our best interests to create our own society. Enjolras, if you would…" he gestured.

The man at the table sighed. He had heard it all before; all talk and no action.

"Fellow citizens. We all know each other by now; some merely by name, some as long-time friends. We all come from different walks of life; from nobility to having nearly nothing.

"And yet, despite all these differences, we all desire the same thing: equality. For why should money dictate how we are treated?"

The man was interested, now. Whoever this speaker was, he was good. His voice was deep and musical, having an almost hypnotic quality to it. He leaned forward a little when he talked and moved his hands to emphasize certain points, but unlike other leaders of his sort who seemed to believe that volume got the point across, he spoke in steady, measured tones that forced one to listen.

Add to that the fact that he looked like an angel…oh, yes, this man, young thought he was, would make a powerful leader.

"I have heard the mutters and restless whispers," he continued. "I have seen the conditions on the street. They call for a revolution, but revolution without thought is akin to suicide.

"Therefore, we must exercise caution. Paris stands on the brink, but unless the balance shifts, she cannot be thrown over. I have no doubt that one day something will occur that shall entice a great majority to join our cause, but until that occurs, the best course we can take is merely to prepare ourselves fully for it," he looked around, his raptor gaze seeking out each man in turn and scrutinizing them.

Then, he sat again.

The man at the table was noticeably impressed. Here, he decided, was the type of society anyone who was looking to rebel would like to join. And he also decided that if _he _ever decided it was to his advantage to join in the fight, this was the man he would follow.

Call him what you would, he knew a good thing when he saw it. Absinthe was a good thing. And this Enjolras, this golden-haired child of the gods, was another good thing.

Yes, for once, he had something to do besides drink, and so he sat back and watched the formation of this new society.

000

"We need a name," Courfeyrac blurted suddenly. "All societies _have _to have a name."

"I concur," Bahorel leaned back in his chair, nodding in agreement. "And it has to be something that means a lot to us, but that anyone else who heard it would have no inkling of what we were speaking of," he added.

"Hm…" Enjolras glanced around thoughtfully. "Well, we are here for the people, are we not? So why not _l'abaisse?"_

"If we change it a bit…A-B-C," Feuilly mused. "What about that? It surely wouldn't be easy to figure out. The ABC society."

"I'm all for that. The society for the people," Bahorel grinned. "I, of course, have obligations with other groups, but then I can be correspondence. Will we meet here, then?"

"Nobody else uses it," Courfeyrac shrugged. "It's private, and it's close to the school. I think it is the best place."

"And how often?"

"I think once a week is good for now, just to catch up and get each other's perspective. And then, if anything ever _does _come up, we can discuss extra meetings then," Combeferre suggested. "But, then, I'm not the leader."

"Stop, André. You're not going to depend on me for everything, because strategy is something I know next to nothing about at this point," Enjolras admitted.

"I am sure most of you, even those who hardly know me, realize that I am a noble. As such, my life has been about isolation and predictability.

"Needless to say, these past two-and-a-half years have shown me a world I hardly knew existed, and at times I feel that my life now has a purpose I never knew about before.

"Before I came to Paris, I learned some things about my family that I am still trying to cope with, because they changed my whole perspective in life.

"What those truths were are not really important, but the most important lesson I picked up was that life can change faster than you could ever imagine. That opened my eyes in a way I had never fathomed it would, and I know that the entire scenario changed me…for the better, I'd like to think, because as André can attest, I was hardly a pleasant person in my childhood," a guilty look flitted across his face.

"But I think that all of us have our own stories and experiences that make us want to help those with less than we have, and I hope we can all, in time, learn about each other and, above all, learn to respect each other," he concluded with a nod.

"He was hardly _that _bad as a child," Combeferre put in.

"Of course not," Courfeyrac snorted. "He's an angel; how bad could he be?"

"This is hardly on topic," Enjolras waved an impatient hand. His gaze wandered the room, coming to rest on a long-haired, unshaven, and generally unkempt man sitting at a corner table. "Who is that man?"

The other turned, but the man in question seemed not to notice them as he took a long drink from the mug in front of him.

"Whoever he is, he's horribly unattractive," Bossuet commented; not all that quietly.

Joly promptly elbowed him in the side.

"Oh. Him," Courfeyrac nodded. "He's in here quite a lot, it seems, but he's of no consequence. Drunk out of his tree more often than not," he shrugged.

"Whether he is under the influence of alcohol or not, there is still no guarantee that he is not a spy," Enjolras stood up and walked over. "Good afternoon, M'sieur."

"Hmm?" The man glanced up. "Oh…good afternoon. Care for a drink?" he held out his mug.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and pushed the mug back. "No, thank you. I prefer being sober," he replied bluntly.

"Ah. Suit yourself," the man shrugged and took another long draught.

"If I may be abrupt, M'sieur, what are you doing here, alone, in the middle of the afternoon?" Enjolras crossed his arms.

"I am, quite simply, here because I have nowhere else to go. I am no spy, if that is what you fear. My name is Richard Grantaire," the man inclined his head.

"Well, Richard Grantaire, do you stand with us or against us?"

"Neither," Grantaire replied, smiling slightly. "I side with myself and am, quite happily, the bearer of no obligations."

"I see." Enjolras neither looked nor sounded impressed. "Will you be here often while we are holding our meetings?"

"I should think so," Grantaire nodded. "I find you fascinating, and most unlike the other pompous, arrogant brats that waltz through here and hope to deliver France by shouting," he elaborated. "But what of you, my fallen angel?" Enjolras noticeably stiffened, glancing at the other warily. "Have you a name?"

"I don't see why I should tell you as, from eavesdropping on our conversation, you no doubt already know it," Enjolras snapped.

"Yes. 'Enjolras,' was it not? But what of a first name? It's only polite, after I have told you mine," Grantaire pointed out.

"Apollo!" Bossuet called from the other table, earning another elbow in the ribs courtesy of Joly.

"Not true, perhaps, but accurate all the same. Ah, well. In that case, I salute you, Apollo Enjolras!" Downing the rest of his mug in one gulp, he then lumbered off in search of a refill, leaving an utterly bewildered Enjolras in his wake.


	10. Chapter 10

**New chapter! Sorry the update's taken so long, but my laptop is currently not wanting to connect to the wireless port, so I have to do it manually. But here it is! And yay, new character time! **

**Anyway, thanks for your continued support + reviews; they mean a lot! **

**Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: No, it's still not mine. Pity. **

**Chapter Ten**

He liked sitting outside in the morning; especially in the summertime. The sun was just peeking over the rooftops, burning off the slight mist rising from the river.

It was days like this, he reflected, that made him glad to be an artist. Inspiration was everywhere, it seemed, and as he was sketching a template for his latest fan, he was hailed tentatively from the gate.

"Excuse me? M'sieur?"

Feuilly glanced up. A young man, perhaps seventeen, was standing at the fence and blinking at him in the brightening sunlight. He looked rather apprehensive.

"Yes?" Feuilly stood up. "Come in."

The boy cautiously pushed open the gate and entered the front yard, walking to the steps. He was tall, almost to the point of being awkward, but he moved with a grace that was somewhat feminine. His lengthy brown hair was tied back, except for his bangs, which hung in two long strands that were tucked behind his ears. His eyes were large and chocolate-coloured, and Feuilly came to the conclusion that, odd though it was, the only way to properly describe him was 'pretty.'

And rich, too, by the look of his clothes. But that was hardly important.

"Can I help you?" Feuilly asked with a smile.

"I _do _hope so," the boy smiled nervously. "You see, I am starting University in the fall, and my parents have sent me here to my new home, but…" he laughed quietly, "I fear I am hopelessly and completely lost."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance, then. But come inside; no sense to be talking on the doorstep." Feuilly pushed the door open and moved down the hallway to his flat. The boy followed slowly, obviously unsure as to whether or not he could trust the older man.

Entering the room, Feuilly gestured to the couch, and the boy took a seat, although he sat stiffly and looked ready to bolt at any second.

"Relax, my friend. You have nothing to fear from me," Feuilly assured him. "My name is Feuilly."

"And your first name?" The boy leaned forward.

"Ah." Feuilly grimaced. "I really prefer my surname, but if you must know…Sébastien."

"Sébastien? How could you be ashamed of such a fine name?" A dreamy look came into his eyes. "It is so very poetic. That's what I am, you see. A poet; a writer," he sighed. "My name is Jehan Prouvaire…well, Jean, actually, but Jehan is much more appropriate for one such as I," he finished.

Feuilly, who had been walking to get another chair, stopped in his tracks. "You…you're not…"

"What?" Jehan raised an eyebrow.

"It's just…your father's story is such an inspiration to me. What he accomplished," Feuilly clarified.

"Oh," Jehan looked down. "Yes, well, I am afraid I am little like my father. I have had a rather spoiled life."

"Are you afraid of me?" Feuilly asked, turning with a gentle smile.

Jehan looked decidedly embarrassed. He cleared his throat a few times before saying, "A little. My father warned me not to let anyone poor close to me, because they would just try to take advantage.

"He told me that most of his peers were dishonourable and tried to sabotage him because he was working to better himself," Jehan explained.

Feuilly let out a sigh and went to sit on the sofa beside the boy, who flinched slightly and moved back. "Jehan…look at me."

The boy looked up, his chocolate-brown eyes staring into Feuilly's cobalt ones.

"Do you think that I would want to hurt you?"

"I…" Jehan looked away. "I…no. I don't think you would."

"You are right. But I promised to help you, and help you I shall. You are familiar, I think, with a man named Enjolras?" Feuilly asked, standing.

"My father is an acquaintance of his; that is true. I met his son, once. He was around my age."

"He is going to school here in Paris," Feuilly informed Jehan. "I know him rather well, and I daresay he could assist you better than I; I am hardly acquainted with the wealthier areas of town."

"Is it far to his place?" Jehan also stood.

"Not very. Coming?"

"Naturally. He was a gorgeous boy, I recall. Is he still?"

"Indeed. I have never seen anyone like him." Feuilly paused to close up some of his paints.

"Oh! Are you an artist?" Jehan walked to the desk.

"A fan-maker," Feuilly smiled. "I'm really not that good…"

"Not good?!" Jehan looked shocked. "Sébastien, I have seen _many _expensive paintings in my time, and these fans could rival any of them for quality!"

"I…thank you…" Feuilly knew he was blushing, but he rarely got praise for his work. "But we should go, before Enjolras heads out for the day," he added.

The two set out, Feuilly taking the shortest way he knew to Enjolras' place. About a year before, he had moved from the huge place his parents purchased to a smaller, one-bedroom flat. His parents had hardly approved, saying something about 'living like a peasant,' but Enjolras was not the type to flaunt his wealth.

As they walked, Feuilly noticed that the roadway was unusually empty for that time of the morning.

"I wonder why…" he started, but as they emerged from an alley, his question was answered.

About forty working-men had overturned a string of wagons and were using them to barricade the entrance to a factory.

There were members of the National Guard present as well, but neither side seemed to be firing as of yet.

Jehan was staring at the sight in wide-eyed astonishment, but just then both sides seemed to come to a simultaneous and unspoken decision and shouts of "Fire!" were heard.

"Come on, Jehan," Feuilly started to back down the alley; some of those bullets were getting dangerously close.

"But Sébastien…"

A bullet clipped the stone wall of the building next to them, and instinctively Feuilly knew what was going to happen before it did. He grabbed Jehan about the waist and pulled him to the ground, shielding the boy with his own body.

He could feel how stiff Jehan was; probably in shock. They had to move.

"Let's go," he urged the other, gritting his teeth as he stood up. He glanced down at his leg, unsurprised to see blood sluggishly oozing out of a bullet wound.

But pain was nothing compared to death. He grabbed the poet's arm and pulled him up, forcing him to move back down the alley.

Emerging back onto the main road, Feuilly limped his way to a nearby bench and collapsed gratefully onto it.

"Wh-what _was _that?" Jehan sank down as well, his eyes huge.

"_That_, Jehan, is Paris," Feuilly replied, slightly out of breath. He reached down to pull up his pant leg, wincing as the fabric came away from the wound.

Jehan looked over in confusion, but when he saw the bright red blood, his face paled. "You…you did that…for me?"

Feuilly nodded, unravelling his scarf and using it as a makeshift bandage.

"But…but _why?_" the poet continued, looking perplexed.

"Couldn't let anything happen to you," Feuilly replied. "After all, I'm somewhat expendable."

"What? Expendable? But you're so talented!"

"I appreciate that, Jehan, but the fact is…I'm also an orphan," Feuilly gingerly stood up, trying to put some weight on his foot, but he staggered and gripped the bench for support.

"How far is Enjolras' place?" Jehan asked.

"A few blocks."

"How heavy are you?"

"Not very. Why?" Feuilly turned to face the poet.

"BecauseIcancarryyou," Jehan mumbled, staring at the ground.

"Come again?"

"Because I can carry you," Jehan repeated, although he still did not look up.

"I think I can manage," Feuilly assured him, taking a step forward and nearly falling over again.

"And I think you can't," Jehan countered, standing up. "Don't you trust me?"

Feuilly sighed. "It isn't that, Jehan. It's just…"

"You don't want to look weak," Jehan finished. "I know. My father is the same way. He always says that on the streets weakness was like a death sentence. Like a hunting pack; they always take the crippled ones first."

Feuilly blinked, a little surprised, but then he nodded. "Exactly."

"But you should have no need for that, Sébastien! If you are friends with this Enjolras…"

"Friends, Jehan. I'm hardly looking for handouts."

"But…"

"Enjolras has done more than enough for me already. He got me a place to live, he and his friend. I won't impose on him again," Feuilly countered.

"Admitting you have troubles is not weakness."

"But depending on somebody else to solve them is."

Jehan sighed and crossed his arms, "Okay. Well, no sense in staying here, is there? Let's get going, then," he stood up.

Feuilly took a step forward and cringed again, knowing that there was no possible way he could make it to Enjolras' on his own. Admitting defeat, he bowed his head slightly and muttered, "You win."

"I what?"

"You win, Jehan. I can't walk. Once we get to Enjolras', I can contact some friends of mine who are studying medicine."

Jehan clapped his hands together and beamed. "Excellent! Let's be on our way, then." He scooped Feuilly up, one hand under his knees and the other on his back.

"You alright? Can you manage?" Feuilly asked with some concern, as Jehan didn't seem too steady on his feet.

"Fine…" Jehan sounded strained. "No, I'm not." He set Feuilly down as gently as he could. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Feuilly assured him. "I'll be alright if you help me a bit."

Jehan nodded, looking thankful. "Okay. _That _I can do."

000

It took them awhile to hobble the few blocks to Enjolras' place, but they made it without further incident. Feuilly couldn't put any weight on his leg, and he was obviously in a great deal of pain as he rapped on the door.

Enjolras arrived momentarily, took one look at Feuilly, and demanded, "What happened?"

Jehan winced at the harsh tone as Feuilly explained, "Group of factory workers facing the Guard; got caught in the crossfire."

"How bad is it?"

"Hurts like heck," Feuilly admitted. "But it was only one bullet. Do you think André will be around?"

"I'm sure I can locate him quick enough. Can you make it to the sofa, or…"

Feuilly knew how much Enjolras still loathed physical contact, so he put on a brave smile and nodded. "I can manage."

"And who is this?" Enjolras inquired as Jehan helped Feuilly to the couch. "You seem awfully familiar, M'sieur. Have we met before?"

"Once; briefly," Jehan admitted. "We came to your manor to visit. My name is Jean Prouvaire, but, true to my nature, I prefer 'Jehan.'"

"In that case, it's good to see you again. But what brings you to Paris? University?" Enjolras asked.

"Indeed. But I am afraid I got turned around somehow and cannot find the address of my new home," he explained.

"Well, that should be easily remedied. But I have to go and search for André. Will you be alright, Feuilly?"

"Of course."

"Good. I'll be back shortly."


	11. Chapter 11

**Well, I only got ONE review, but oh, well…this is still my most-reviewed story EVER!!! And certainly one of my longest…although I've realized that technically it could go on practically forever, because there are endless amounts of trouble that our boys can get into…we'll see. **

**And has anybody else seen/downloaded Shoujo Cosette, the Les Miz anime? It is officially my new love, and I think next week or the week after will be the big, climactic barricade episode…the students seem to get due recognition, at least, which is always good. **

**I'm trying to translate the raw shows with my limited Japanese in order to show my parents, and my mom is 'helping…' which is why Valjean is apparently going out to buy some egg foo yung pork…Hmm…**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Boo…**

**Chapter Eleven**

"He got _shot?"_

"_Yes, _François. Calm down," Enjolras sighed at the other's antics. "It's not nearly life-threatening."

"But he got _shot_."

"_Yes_," Combeferre sighed. "Now are you coming or not?"

"Of course I'm coming!" Courfeyrac stood.

"Then come." Enjolras walked out of the room.

000

"But he'll be alright?" Courfeyrac pressed as they walked.

"From what Apollo says, yes," Combeferre nodded. "Of course, I shall have to examine it myself to get an actual idea."

"André, stop _calling _me that," Enjolras turned to the other man. "You've known me longer than anyone else here, so why must you persist with this 'Apollo' nonsense?"

"Because it suits you perfectly," Courfeyrac grinned. "Even you have to admit that it is a very fitting name."

"I concur," Combeferre nodded. "And since you won't actually _tell _me your given name…"

"We've been through this all before, André," Enjolras waved an impatient hand. "There's nothing to tell."

"Therefore, you have been christened, 'Apollo,'" Courfeyrac proclaimed. "But I don't see why you're so afraid. Feuilly positively loathes 'Sébastien,' but at least he told us what it was."

"For the last time, I am not telling you," Enjolras said coldly, his eyes hard.

"All right," Courfeyrac shrugged. "In that case, you'll just have to live with 'Apollo.'"

Enjolras did not reply, and a few moments later they had arrived back at his place. Combeferre went to tend to Feuilly and Jehan, Enjolras and Courfeyrac went into the bedroom to wait. After the introductions were given, Courfeyrac cut right to the point.

"How is he?"

Jehan looked somewhat cautious about the other man, but he sat on the bed and replied, "I hardly know, myself. My knowledge of the human body and things pertaining to it is, alas, sadly lacking."

"Hmmm…"

"No."

Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras and blinked innocently. "But you don't…"

"No."

"Can't I even…"

"_No._ He's far too young to be caught up in this mess."

"You were sixteen," Courfeyrac pointed out, crossing his arms.

"And I hardly knew what I was getting myself into."

"But does he not have a right to choose for himself?"

Jehan was looking from one to the other in confusion while Enjolras heaved a sigh. "Not yet."

"Then when?"

"Later, perhaps," Enjolras replied. "After he has been in the city longer."

"Excuse me for inquiring, but what are you speaking of?" Jehan asked.

"It's not important at the moment," Enjolras assured him. "I'm going to check on André and Feuilly." With a warning glance at Courfeyrac, he left the room.

"So…" Courfeyrac sat on the bed. "You're the son of the Paris-famous Jean Prouvaire."

"…I am…"

"In that case, my good man, I am sure you would be appalled to find out that the poor people in this city are being _very _unjustly treated by the King and his nobles," Courfeyrac said off-handedly.

"My father says that it's their own fault, because they think that merely because they are poor they should get free handouts and sympathy. He bettered himself; they should also be able to."

"Jehan, let me tell you something," Courfeyrac turned his head to the side, blinking thoughtfully. "Your father was a rare case. Why, I know a man who was certainly on his way to becoming quite self-sufficient, but it seems that some street crooks don't like ambitious people. They stole his savings and destroyed all of his material, leaving him cold and hungry in the middle of a harsh winter," he said, never moving his eyes from the young poet. "What do you say to that? Do men like him deserve to be persecuted?"

"No, of course not!" Jehan vehemently shook his head. "If that is the case, then certainly something must be done. But if street rogues are the problem, can't the police take the initiative?" he asked.

"_Patron-Minette_ are far too clever to be caught by the police," Courfeyrac responded. "And they're not the only problem; not all the poor even have the _opportunity _to try and better themselves. It's hard to do anything without money of _some _kind."

"True enough. This man you spoke of…did he ever get back on his feet?"

"You can judge that for yourself," Courfeyrac replied.

"What?" Jehan's eyes widened. "You mean…Sébastien? But he's…he's…" Jehan stopped, looking unsure as to whether or not he should continue.

"He's incredible is what he is," Courfeyrac smiled. "I mean, Enjolras and Combeferre helped him get started, but he's a talented artist, to be sure.

"And think, Jehan, how many _other _undiscovered talents are out there, being squandered because nobody will stop to appreciate them!" Courfeyrac exclaimed.

"True enough," Jehan agreed.

"Then you'll help us?"

"Well, I…"

"Oh, please, Jehan," Courfeyrac mock-pouted, "Please say you will!"

"I…alright, then," Jehan blinked, sounding still somewhat less-than-convinced.

"You're a good man to agree, Jehan Prouvaire. Now, let me tell you a little about _my _talents…"

000

"And you left them _alone_?" Combeferre shook his head and sighed. "Apollo, you should know by now that…"

"He'll try and recruit the boy. _Especially_ because he is directly defying my orders by doing so," Enjolras replied.

"And you're alright with this?"

"If I weren't, André, I would never have said it," Enjolras replied. "But how are you, Feuilly?"

"Been better…and worse," he admitted. "Remember when I told you my brother was killed by bandits? Well, I was with him when it happened and I nearly died as well. Some kind citizens took us to the hospital, but it was too late for him," Feuilly propped himself up on one elbow.

"You certainly haven't had it easy, have you?" Combeferre asked, sympathy evident in his eyes.

"No worse than any other _gamin_," Feuilly shrugged. "I am not dead, at least; and among us, that in itself is an accomplishment."

"But it should not be!" Enjolras retorted. "And that is the whole problem. If living to be twenty years old is a feat worth admiration, something is seriously skewed."

"We knew that, though," Combeferre sighed. "But to see someone who's been through it first-hand can tend to change one's perspective," he added.

"The last thing I want is pity," Feuilly assured them. "Believe me."

Before either Combeferre or Enjolras could reply, however, there were voices heard outside the door. "But he's _gone!" _

"Calm down, Pierre."

Enjolras went to open the door, and Joly and Bahorel came in, still arguing.

"What happens to be the problem, gentlemen?" Combeferre asked.

"Bossuet," Joly heaved a sigh, sinking down into a chair. "He's been gone over a week…he's never disappeared for this long. The last time I saw him was at our meeting, and he barely even acknowledged me."

"Pierre," Bahorel perched himself on the arm of the chair. "More than likely he's merely found a mistress or something. It's nothing to worry about."

"I would _hope_, Tristan, that if he _has _found a girl, he would at least tell _me_," Joly replied bitterly.

"You're not his mother," Bahorel snorted.

"No, but…"

"Well, give him some space," Bahorel shrugged.

"Alright, but if it's something more…"

"You miss him, don't you?" Feuilly asked, shifting slightly to look at Joly.

"I…what?"

"When he's gone. Pierre, why don't you just tell him to stay for good?" Feuilly continued.

"He'd say no, of course, and that is hardly…what happened to you?"

"You're changing the subject?" Feuilly noted. "Answer my question."

"Well, of course I miss him! Satisfied?" Joly glanced at the fan-maker.

"Enough. And as for me, young Jehan Prouvaire and I ran afoul of a sort of insurrection; took a bullet in the leg, but it's hardly going to keep me down for long," he assured him.

"So where is this young man?" Bahorel inquired.

"François is trying to recruit him, of course," Combeferre replied.

"And you think he shall have luck?"

Combeferre shrugged, and Bahorel added, "And, if you don't mind my asking, where is this little insurrection taking place?"

"You know that large factory down by the river?" Feuilly asked. When Bahorel nodded, he continued, "Right around there."

"Ah. Well, you know how it is: I can never miss a good brawl. I shall see you all later," Bahorel waved and went out the door.

"What do you think of Prouvaire?" Enjolras turned back to Feuilly.

"He's a nice boy, but far…_far _too innocent for his own good. His father seems to have taught him that all poor citizens follow the direction of _Patron-Minette_. I think he was quite convinced I was going to rob him," Feuilly replied. "And he has no idea what Paris is truly like. I think someone needs to show him around if he actually agrees to join us."

"The only one who could do that well is yourself, Feuilly," Combeferre noted, "And I don't think you'll be up and about for a couple of weeks."

"You don't give yourselves enough credit," Feuilly returned. "I know for a fact that the two of you ran all over Paris looking for a place for me."

"Well, true enough. I suppose I could show him a bit when I take him to his house," Enjolras shrugged.

"Just don't scare him, Apollo," Combeferre cautioned.

"Don't worry. We want to recruit him, not mortify him, after all," Enjolras replied.

"Well, we'll just have to see how he takes it," Joly leaned back in his chair, and all of them were quite obviously wondering the same thing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you all for your reviews! I'm glad you still like my story, and I've decided to update a new chapter! So, enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Still doesn't belong to me. **

**Chapter Twelve**

"This way?" Jehan glanced down the alley, wrinkling his nose slightly at the odour wafting from it.

"Yes," Enjolras replied briskly, starting into the alleyway. Jehan stayed close, his eyes darting around as they went forward. Nearly every doorway held a thin, starving beggar asking for alms. Enjolras kept his eyes forward, knowing that beggars were less likely to accost somebody who was playing indifference. Jehan noticed, of course, and tried to imitate the other man's cool demeanour, but he couldn't stop himself from sneaking glanced every once in a while.

Coming out of the alley, they crossed the street and started through a nearby park. Several _gamin _children were running around, obviously playing a game of some sort. Enjolras glanced at them in passing and, making sure one of them saw, he carefully placed a few francs on a bench.

"Why do you help the children and not the adults?" Jehan asked as they went.

"Because children will actually use the money for what it is meant to be used for," Enjolras replied. Seeing Jehan's questioning glance, he added, "Food. Older beggars; and most of them are men; the women who are poor find other ways to make money; will ask for some with the _pretence _of getting food, but most likely they will squander it on drink or," he grimaced, "pleasurable company."

"What?"

_Far too innocent, _Enjolras thought. _Feuilly was right_. "Brothels, Jehan. Prostitutes. Whores," he added, as Jehan's eyes widened.

"You mean, there are some in Paris?"

"Come with me. And keep close," Enjolras cautioned as they made their way down to the river.

"Why? Where are we going?"

"Nowhere you would want to be seen more than once," Enjolras replied.

Coming from between the buildings to a wide street beside the river, Jehan stopped in his tracks. The road was filled with seedy-looking men and provocatively-dressed women.

"Ah…"

Jehan moved back as two women wearing _very _low-cut dresses sidled up to the two of them.

"Well, and what are two handsome young men like yourselves doing at a place like this?" One of them asked, grabbing a hold of Enjolras' cravat and pulling him close. "You're very pretty, you know," she said in a low voice.

"I've been told," he replied evenly, slipping some money into her hand. "But, much to my regret, I am afraid my friend and I have a previous appointment we must attend to," he finished with a cool smile.

The woman pouted a bit, but she let go of his shirt and backed off. "Come back sometime, darling?"

"Perhaps," Enjolras turned around and started back across the street, grabbing Jehan's sleeve and pulling him along until the boy had recovered his wits.

"That…that…"

"Is common in Paris," Enjolras shrugged. "Horrible, of course, but hardly uncommon."

"How could you remain so calm? She was practically on top of you!" Jehan exclaimed.

"I pity them," Enjolras said simply.

"You _what?_"

"Many of them have no chance," Enjolras replied. "They were cast out of their jobs for reasons that were hardly credible; some merely because they refused to give into the whims of their bosses. And now look at them…but it is that, or die."

"Oh," Jehan looked at his feet. "I had no idea."

"Don't let it worry you; most people don't. I was as unlearned as you when I came to Paris, and it was a shock to me as well," Enjolras turned down another wide street, although this one was flanked with large buildings that obviously belonged to the very wealthy.

"Is this the place?"

"It is around here, to be sure," Enjolras looked at the address again before stopping in front of a building.

"That's it?"

"It would appear to be."

Enjolras and Jehan walked up the stairs and Jehan pushed the door open, emerging into a lavishly decorated front-parlour.

"Looks spacious enough." Enjolras walked forward, looking into the next room.

"I told them nothing fancy," Jehan sighed, his eyes coming to rest on a small wooden box laying on the table in the hall. "Is that…" He walked slowly over and carefully opened the box, letting out a small gasp as he saw what was inside.

"What? What is it?" Enjolras walked back over.

"This. They shouldn't have," Jehan shook his head, looking close to tears. In his hands he held up an elaborate, obviously expensive flute.

"You play?"

"Yes; for a long time. But my parents told me not to take my old one with, although now I can see why," he lightly fingered the instrument.

"Would you mind…playing something?" Enjolras asked, trying his best not to make it sound like a command. "My parents thought music interfered with my studies; I was never allowed to go to an opera or a symphony," he admitted.

"Of course, then!" Jehan's large eyes were filled with sympathy. "Forgive me if it starts poorly, but every instrument is different," he explained, bringing the flute to his lips and experimentally trilling a scale. He then launched into a light, playful melody; fingers skipping deftly over the keys.

When he finished, Enjolras gave him an appraising nod. "Well, well, Master Prouvaire. You seem to have quite a talent."

"Oh, no," Jehan chuckled. "Merely a pastime of mine. My real love lies with the written word, and especially poetry," he smiled.

"I see. But what of your devotion to our cause?" Enjolras cut right to the point.

"Well, I…if it helps people like Sébastien, I would gladly fight for it," he said proudly. "Although, truth be told, some of François' stories were…somewhat disconcerting," he admitted.

Enjolras permitted himself a small smile before responding, "Yes, well, François is _quite _the storyteller."

"You mean, they weren't true?"

"Well, some of them may have been partly accurate, but for the most part they are much exaggerated," Enjolras shrugged.

"Oh. Well, that is a relief," Jehan smiled.

"Don't let him…or anyone else in our society, for that matter…unnerve you," Enjolras said.

"You mean, even you?" Jehan clapped a hand over his mouth in horror as he registered what he had just said.

"Me most of all," Enjolras replied.

"I'll try," Jehan promised, putting down his flute. He smiled cautiously at Enjolras who, after a moment, returned the smile.

000

"Sweet boy."

"You think so?" Feuilly lay back on the sofa, making sure he kept his leg raised as he shifted.

"Of course. You don't?"

"Oh, I agree. How did you manage to convince him?"

"I gave him an example of somebody who deserved a better life," Courfeyrac grinned.

"And who would that be?"

"You, of course!" Courfeyrac stated this as if it were the most obvious fact imaginable.

"I…_what?_" Feuilly sat up; immediately regretting it as his leg twinged painfully.

"Feuilly, what did I tell you about moving it?" Combeferre sighed, but he knew that Courfeyrac had been going for that reaction all along.

"I know!" Feuilly gritted his teeth, laying back down and slowly letting out a breath. "But really, François…"

"It worked, did it not?" Courfeyrac grinned. "As long as dear Apollo doesn't scare him off. Although if I the stories I was telling him did not faze him…"

"Lies, you mean," Combeferre snorted.

"Not _all _of them…"

"Oh, come now, François. We all know you are not _nearly _the rogue you claim so fervently to be," Combeferre sighed.

"Oh, hush," Courfeyrac turned his gaze to Joly, who was staring intently at nothing and seemingly oblivious to their entire conversation. "You! Pierre! Earth to Pierre!" He waved a hand in front of the medic's face.

"Hmm?" Joly blinked.

"Stop moping. He'll come back."

"How do you know?"

"Trust me," Courfeyrac smiled. "You two need each other. He'll realize it soon enough."

"Quite the speech, François," Combeferre said with a wry grin.

"I can be serious when I want to," Courfeyrac sighed.

"No, I appreciate it," Joly assured him. "Thank you. Really."

"Of course. It's what I do," Courfeyrac grasped his shoulder. "Now, come on. I'm hungry, and since poor Sébastien is in no condition to go out, we shall have to bring the food to him. Come with me?" He held out a hand.

"Naturally," Joly gave him a grateful smile and returned the handclasp.

"Good. We shall be back shortly," Courfeyrac waved and the two went out.

They had barely been gone five minutes when a knock sounded on the door. Combeferre and Feuilly shared a glance; the latter shrugged and the former went to open the door.

"André! Have you seen Pierre?" It was Bossuet, and he looked decidedly anxious.

"He was just here, in fact, and should be returning shortly. He was most worried about you."

Bossuet guiltily stared at the floor and muttered, "I knew he'd be mad."

"Well, come in," Combeferre moved back into the room. "I am sure that he will not stay angry for long, if that is the case. To me, it seemed more concern than anger."

"But I needn't have concerned him! I…what happened to you, Feuilly?" Bossuet turned to the fan-maker.

"Bullet," Feuilly shrugged.

"And I daresay he's tired of explaining to everyone," Combeferre added with a smile. "But if you will permit me to ask: where were you?"

"Do you remember that girl I ran into on the street two years back? Musichetta?"

Combeferre nodded.

"Well, I saw her again last week, and we went out for dinner."

"And…"

"And she asked me where I lived. When I replied, 'nowhere,' she invited me home. Very forward, that girl, but it would have been extremely rude to decline," he paused, as if waiting for a contradiction, but none came. "Well, it turned out that she and I have a lot in common, and…" he took a deep breath and said, "And I think I should introduce her to Pierre."

"Pierre." Feuilly raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Pierre. God knows a mistress would hardly do me any good…I have no home of my own," he shrugged.

"Bossuet!" Feuilly groaned. "Do you seriously think that she would invite you to her home and let you stay for a week if she didn't like you at least a bit? And now you're going to go and try to pass her off to your _friend?" _

"Ah…when you put it that way…maybe I should explain it to her first…" Bossuet scratched his head.

"That would be advisable, I would think," Combeferre nodded.

"Well, alright, but I'll wait until Pierre gets back before I go to find Musichetta…and hope he isn't too annoyed with me.

"But she and him would make such a perfect couple! Believe me!" He continued.

"I do, but you still have to tell them…"

"Tell who what?" Courfeyrac pushed the door open, arms laden with food. Joly followed him in, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Bossuet, who seemed to be at a total loss for words.


	13. Chapter 13

**One review again…well, at least I got one! Time for an update, anyway…and it kind of ends on a cliffhanger. I think I owe it to myself, because I haven't done many serious cliffies lately! **

**Anyway, enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Bossuet!" Joly exclaimed. "Where have you been?"

"I…around," Bossuet shrugged.

Combeferre cleared his throat, and Bossuet turned to find both him and Feuilly regarding him with twin gazes that were obviously meant to goad him into telling. "Alright. You remember that girl I met two years ago? Musichetta?"

"Naturally. You were, to put it mildly, completely enamoured with her," Joly smiled.

"Well, I happened to meet her again and have been spending a lot of the week with her," Bossuet said.

"You…you have?"

"Yes."

"And do you…are you…"

"No, Pierre. Don't be silly. Actually, I was rather hoping that I could introduce the two of you," Bossuet shrugged. "You would get along admirably, I feel."

"But…you and she…"

"There is _nothing _between us. Well, she might not know it, but…give her a chance. Come with me to meet her, at least," Bossuet implored.

"Bossuet, I appreciate this; I do, but a mistress would never work for me…"

"Of course it would! Please?"

"I…oh, all right. But I'm not making any promises."

"We're meeting for lunch. Come on!" Bossuet grabbed his hand and rushed out the door.

"Ah, young love!" Courfeyrac sighed and dropped on to the sofa.

"You speak as one who knows a lot of love," Combeferre replied with a bit of a smile.

"I do! You know of my exploits."

"That's not love, François," Feuilly shook his head. "That's one night of pleasure, perhaps, but it's saying something when you have no desire to stay with a woman for more than one night."

"Well, I don't see the two of _you _with mistresses," Courfeyrac huffed.

"No time," Combeferre shrugged.

"No money," Feuilly replied.

"Oh, you're no fun," Courfeyrac pouted.

"Stop acting like a child, François."

"Childish? _Me? _ When I'm the only one in this room who has even dared to _kiss _a woman?" Courfeyrac remarked.

"I was hardly aware that romantic exploits were a factor in how mature one was," Combeferre retorted.

"André, I would ask you to remember that, while we spent our childhood together, we come from two different worlds," Courfeyrac said heatedly, standing up.

"I was _also _not aware, apparently, that the fact we lived apart for a while would strain our relationship this much. You always maintained that the stories about yourself were untrue. Or are you truly no better than those disgusting men who pay daily visits to the prostitutes?" Combeferre said evenly, his gaze a near-perfect copy of one Enjolras would have given.

"I thought you, of all people, would know me well enough to figure out the truth, but I guess I was horribly mistaken!" Courfeyrac shot back, pausing for only a moment before storming out of the apartment.

Combeferre looked after him for a moment before sitting slowly down in an armchair. Feuilly was looking a little stunned, so Combeferre turned to him and promised, "Pay him no mind. He'll come around." Although his supposedly reassuring smile came out as more of a grimace.

"You're sure? He seemed rather…"

"Angry?"

"That may be an understatement."

"I suppose. I just hope he doesn't do anything…foolish," Combeferre replied.

"Is he prone to?"

"I fear so. He may just try to prove me wrong. And I also fear that he is somewhat lacking in common sense. I'm hoping dearly that it will blow over soon and he'll forget the whole thing, but François is a bit of an anomaly in that way: he's unpredictable," Combeferre explained.

"Well, he seems to have _some _ration about him, at least. I would not worry too much about…"

"Worry about what?" Enjolras walked back in. "And why was the door left open?"

"François," Combeferre replied, as if that one word could explain everything. And apparently it did, because Enjolras paused thoughtfully before nodding in apparent understanding.

Jehan, of course, was not nearly so informed, and promptly asked, "What?"

"You had a falling out…probably regarding his promiscuity, I would wager," Enjolras stated.

"Accurate as ever," Combeferre nodded. "I just hope he…oh, Dear God, Apollo, he wouldn't…"

"He might."

"They'll kill him!"

"Or worse."

There was about a ten-second pause before Combeferre and Enjolras got up and rushed out the door almost instantaneously.

"What was _that _all about?" Jehan asked as he went to close the door.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Jehan, but François Courfeyrac does not possess a great deal of tact," Feuilly replied. "In fact, I sometimes would be inclined to say that he does not possess any whatsoever.

"But they'll be fine. You found your home, did you?"

"Yes; of course. I think my parents bought it for about ten people, but that is hardly surprising. They also left me this," he pulled out the flute.

"Would you play?"

"I'd love to."

000

"André, calm down."

"Apollo…"

"Look," Enjolras stopped, forcing Combeferre to halt as well. "We've got nothing to worry about. By all accounts, he's just stomped off to get a drink or something equally harmless."

"I'd like to think that; you _know _I would, but part of me is saying that he…"

"Well, rushing blindly about the city is helping no one. Do you know where he would go?"

"I know the area of town he used to frequent. It's a rough spot…I don't know if I want you going down there," Combeferre laid a hand on the younger man's arm. "It may be hazardous to your health, _mon ami_."

"Never. I can take care of myself, André," Enjolras assured him, brushing his hand off.

"Alright. But keep close. And please…_try _to keep your temper in check. I know it isn't intentional," he barrelled on as Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, "but it may cause us unwanted trouble. And we both know I would be more than useless if it came to a fight, except to do the healing afterward," Combeferre finished.

"While I'm sure that is not the truth, I'll agree to your request," Enjolras nodded. "After all, I am somewhat untested in the area of physical combat myself."

André nodded and they continued on, stopping only briefly when they saw the unsteady figure of Richard Grantaire tottering toward them.

"Ah, Combeferre; Enjolras!" He hailed them with a wave. "I saw your friend Courfeyrac rush by a few moments ago; he had the look of a man on an important mission," Grantaire slurred.

"Yes, and we are trying to catch him, so I would appreciate it if you left us alone, wine-cask," Enjolras snapped.

"Apollo," Combeferre fixed Enjolras with a disapproving glance. "Richard, how good are you at fighting?"

"Fair enough, I would daresay," Grantaire shrugged. "Alas, my innocent friends, a man such as me has seen his share of scraps."

"I do not doubt it," Enjolras muttered, crossing his arms.

"We're worried for François' safety," Combeferre continued. "Would you consider coming along in case events get out of hand? It would be greatly appreciated. By both of us," he amended, as Grantaire was obviously thinking the proposal through.

"Well…I really have nothing better to do, so in that case…" he nodded. "I would be glad to accompany you fine gentlemen," he smiled, turning himself around and beginning to weave in the other direction.

"Are you mad?" Enjolras hissed, bending a little so he could whisper to Combeferre.

"Hardly. Both of us know he's bound to be better at fighting than we are, and since we have no idea how many men we'll be up against, it cannot hurt to have him with."

"I know that, André. But by all accounts he's too inebriated to land a single punch!" Enjolras exclaimed, his frustration evident.

"And could you, Apollo? Could you injure another person?" Combeferre asked bluntly.

"If I had to," Enjolras replied softly.

"We shall see soon enough, I fear," Combeferre replied soberly as the three continued down the street.

000

Courfeyrac briefly considered turning around. Or stopping. Or going home, falling asleep, and pretending the whole mess never really happened.

But he didn't. He couldn't. He had thought that Combeferre…that Combeferre, of all people, would believe him. He _knew _how Courfeyrac felt about his 'reputation,' and yet he had used it to get back at him. He had used it for revenge.

And if Combeferre didn't believe him, life just didn't seem as happy. So he had to prove, once and for all, that he was not the man that he was supposed to be. That he had…as Combeferre had put it…_morals_.

The thought that his life might be in danger had never occurred to him. The fact that he was going to confront men who despised him and had already proved they had no qualms about causing him harm did not seem to register.

And, above all, the fact that this time Bahorel would not be there to save him never crossed his mind.

So he considered going back.

But he didn't.


	14. Chapter 14

**Ooh. Tension chapter…it was kind of good to write, though, because it's somewhat different than most of my others…I must have been in a rotten mood or something, but looking over it, I'm rather pleased at how it came out. It involves…angsty-ness, which I **_**do **_**write a lot, but not as much in this story. Anyway, thank you SO much for your kind reviews! Not ONLY is this my most reviewed story, it is also the story with the most hits, which is amazing! My goal when I started was to get fifty reviews, and I'm already at forty-nine, so HOPEFULLY I can get there! Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. Naturally. **

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Well, well. Come to join the fun, have we?"

The speaker was a large and ugly man; nearly as tall as he was wide; and when he grinned it was obvious he was used to getting into fights; there were very few teeth left in his mouth.

"Now, now, gentlemen. Can't we all just –hic- get along?" Grantaire asked jovially.

There were at least five other men, similar in stature to the first one, lurking around, and they had begun to close in. Combeferre and Enjolras ended up standing back-to-back while Grantaire was trying to placate the other men.

"My, my, Marc. He's a pretty one, isn't he?" One of the men commented, leering at Enjolras. "Won't be so pretty after we're done with you, boy," he threatened.

"Please, my good fellows, why can't we…just…" Grantaire swayed on his feet before falling over in a dead faint. Enjolras snorted, and although Combeferre could not see him, he knew the other man was plainly thinking, 'I told you so.'

"We…" Combeferre gulped. "We just came to see if our friend was here. We aren't looking for a fight," he said, trying hard to keep his voice steady.

"Oh, their _friend_. Yes, there was another pretty boy here not long ago…wanted to get back at us for spreading rumors or something. Well, he got what he deserved, right enough." The man smirked at them and nodded to a couple of his fellows, who lumbered off only to return moments later with Courfeyrac, whom they unceremoniously dumped on the ground.

Combeferre couldn't stop the gasp that broke from his mouth, and even Enjolras flinched and muttered an astonished "_Mon Dieu…_"

Courfeyrac glanced blearily up at them, trying to raise himself up a little but appearing too weak to even attempt it. His clothing was in shreds, one eye was swollen shut, and drops of blood fell from his lips. He chuckled wryly before saying, "Hello, André."

"Quiet, you!" One of the men aimed a kick at his torso, and Courfeyrac winced as it connected. Combeferre closed his eyes as his hand involuntarily fastened around Enjolras' wrist, but to his amazement, the younger man made no attempt to break away.

"You're very brave to come here after your miserable friend, but I'm afraid all you'll get for your troubles is to share his fate."

"You're monsters!" Enjolras spat, his perfect features contorted by a fury so great that even Courfeyrac flinched.

" 'Monsters,' are we? Well, boy, maybe you shouldn't play with monsters if you fear them so much." The first man, Marc, drew a dagger from his belt and held it up so it reflected the light. "On second thought…you," he pointed at Combeferre. "Take that miserable creature and get out of our sight. We have something much more…amusing to attend to," he smirked, an evil light coming into his eyes.

Combeferre could hardly believe what he was hearing. They were letting him off without a scratch! But Enjolras…

"If you don't move, I may have to retract my offer," the man threatened.

"Go, André," Enjolras said in a low voice. He knew that these men were bullying cowards, but they were still not street thieves…from their accent and the way they spoke, they were not familiar with _argot_, and so Enjolras risked adding, "Find the _cognes." _

"But…you…" Combeferre's grip on Enjolras' wrist tightened.

"I'll be alright. Go. Now," Enjolras commanded, and Combeferre reluctantly let go, moving to Courfeyrac and pulling him to his feet as best he could before leaving the alley.

Enjolras turned back to Marc, all traces of emotion gone, and intoned, "Now…where were we?"

000

"Stop pacing, would you?" Courfeyrac opened his eyes long enough to watch Combeferre walking feverishly back and forth in front of him before closing them again with a groan.

"In case you have not noticed, François, I'm a little worked up at the present time," Combeferre replied. "What if the police don't get there in time? What if he…oh, God, what if he…" Combeferre finally stopped and sat heavily on the bench beside his friend. "And it would all be _my _fault!"

"No, it wouldn't. I was being an idiot, and it was my choice to go looking for trouble like that, _not _yours. I'm sorry, André. I know I said a lot of hurtful…" he cut off with a gasp.

"François…" Combeferre realized that in all the excitement, he had not even checked over his friend's injuries. "Here. Lie down," he got off the bench and knelt beside it as Courfeyrac gingerly lay back.

"Don't baby me, André," he said, attempting to smile.

"This will probably hurt, alright?" Combeferre could see most of the external injuries, and the other man could walk, but from the way he moved Combeferre knew that _some_thing was paining his friend. And he had a good idea where to start looking. Unbuttoning the other's shirt, he ran his hands gently over Courfeyrac's chest, wincing a little as his actions elicited a painful moan. "Well, it's as I thought…you've got a couple of cracked ribs; perhaps even a broken one, but I can't tell right now."

"I'm a fool, aren't I?"

"No, but you _are _taking up the whole seat, and I have no intention of kneeling in the dirt all day," Combeferre returned, pleased to see his jibe earn a genuine smile from Courfeyrac. "Here…" Combeferre gently raised the other man's torso, sitting down beside him. Courfeyrac leaned into him and Combeferre carefully snaked an arm about the other's waist, holding him firmly in place. "You alright?"

"Will be, I'm sure," Courfeyrac yawned, resting his head on the other man's shoulder. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For believing me. I thought you despised me for being what everyone said I was, but you coming after me proved you're a real friend."

"Hush. Of course I believed you; I spoke out of anger only. Now get some rest, _mon frere_," Combeferre replied.

"You mean that, André?"

"Of course. Same blood or not, you _are _my brother."

"_Merci, _André," Courfeyrac murmured before he dropped off to sleep.

000

"André! Wake up."

Combeferre's eyes snapped open. How could he have fallen asleep? It was evening, he noticed: the lengthening shadows were a dead giveaway. Courfeyrac let out a sleepy grunt beside him before also opening his eyes.

"André, what…" he trailed off as they both focussed on the man standing in front of them.

"You're alright," Combeferre smiled in relief. "I thought the police might not make it in time," he admitted.

"They were surprisingly speedy," Enjolras crossed his arms. "And as for Marc and his friends, they proved to be quite easily distracted. I must admit, I did not really know how to divert their attention, but it seems reciting English soliloquies does the job rather nicely," he added with a small smile.

"I had no idea _Hamlet _could save one's life," Courfeyrac smiled back. "Perhaps I should consider learning some speeches myself."

"Yes, I was surprised as well. But come! we need to hasten back. No doubt André still has some healing to do."

"What of Grantaire?" Combeferre asked.

"I don't particularly see _why _we concern ourselves with him, but I woke him up before I came here. He went off to get a drink," Enjolras responded dryly.

"Typical thing for him to do, isn't it?" Courfeyrac looked thoughtful. "Oh, but you know I shan't be able to walk any great distance," he added.

"I had considered it."

"And André is too short to carry me…"

"Can we _please _stop with that?" Combeferre groaned.

"And…?"

"And the only person left to carry me is…well…_you_," Courfeyrac finished.

"Really. I hadn't noticed," Enjolras rolled his eyes.

"But that would involve _touching _me in order to pick me up."

"I'm aware."

"And this…doesn't bother you?"

"I believe I will survive," Enjolras returned, somewhat frostily.

"Alright, then. Just thought I'd warn you," Courfeyrac shrugged; wincing as he inadvertently put pressure on his chest.

"Careful with him, Apollo. He's got some cracked ribs; or worse," Combeferre warned.

"Don't concern yourself with me," Enjolras assured the surgeon. He leaned over to gently pick Courfeyrac up; if he was uncomfortable, he hid it; and Courfeyrac still appeared somewhat astonished that Enjolras would _do _such a thing. As they started walking, the bumpy motion caused his chest to ache, and he unconsciously placed his arms around Enjolras' neck, grimacing as he did so.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes; fine," Courfeyrac forced out, although his body felt like it was on fire.

"André, wave down a fiacre. I know it's close, but François is evidently in a good deal of pain." As Combeferre left, Enjolras gently lowered Courfeyrac to his feet, keeping a firm grip on the other's shoulder. Courfeyrac staggered a little but stayed upright, and he walked into the carriage by himself when it arrived.

Dropping down gratefully onto the seat, he nonetheless raised an eyebrow when Enjolras sat beside him, but the other man ignored this.

"Don't you normally sit on the opposite side by yourself?" Courfeyrac asked, although his smile turned to a grimace as the carriage started moving. He leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

"Do you want to, or should I?" Combeferre asked. "If you're not comfortable…"

"Stop treating me like I'm not human. What must I do?" Enjolras asked.

"Keep his chest stable; make sure he does not move around. If anything _is _broken, we can't risk it piecing a lung or anything," Combeferre instructed.

"I'll be fine," Courfeyrac protested.

"No, you won't be. If something goes wrong, you could die, and I'm not letting that happen," Combeferre said.

"Alright, then," Courfeyrac nodded. Enjolras carefully placed his arms around the older man's chest, making sure to hold firm enough so the bumpy carriage would not jolt him.

"Relax, François," Combeferre suggested. "Tensing up will only put more strain on your chest."

Courfeyrac nodded and let out a sigh, allowing Enjolras to partially hold him up.

Soon enough, they arrived back at the apartment, and Enjolras lifted Courfeyrac up to carry him in. "I'll take him into the bedroom; Feuilly's still on the couch."

Combeferre nodded, and they entered the building.


	15. Chapter 15

**I GOT MY FIFTY REVIEWS!!!! Which makes me extremely happy, but that doesn't mean you all should stop reviewing! **

**Anyway, for anyone who has read my other story "Cinnabar" and wants to see what inspired it, I can't post the actual clip on YouTube due to copyright stuff, but I DID make a music video which features some stuff from that episode in the latter of half of it, so I'll post a link in my profile in case anyone wants to check it out. **

**Hope this helps! **

**Disclaimer: Of course I don't own it, but it'd be fun if I did! **

**Chapter Fifteen**

"_Dieu, _what happened?" Feuilly's eyes were wide as he watched the three men cross the room. After depositing Courfeyrac on the bed, Enjolras came out and sank into an armchair, relating the tale as he did so.

"My, we're certainly accident-prone today, aren't we?" Feuilly asked with a small smile. "Except for you, of course. You seem to have a guardian angel on your shoulder, right enough."

"I have no such thing," Enjolras assured him. "I'll admit that I was lucky, but I certainly am not invincible."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Jehan put in, cowering a bit when Enjolras turned to him. "That is…I…"

"Because I'm Apollo. You would hardly be the first to think so, Jehan, and I am fairly sure you will not be the last," Enjolras sighed.

"It does not flatter you, then?"

"No; I'm not the type to be vain. Rather, it forces me to live up to an image that is impossible to emulate. Godliness is not bestowed on mere mortals," Enjolras closed his eyes.

"O-oh," Jehan pointedly studied the floor.

Enjolras opened an eye and said, "Jehan, did I not tell you not to be intimidated by me?"

"Well, yes, but…it's your nature," Jehan grimaced. "I tell myself not to fear you, but it does not seem to have any effect."

"You'll get used to him; don't worry," Feuilly replied. "His bark is worse than his bite, to use the old saying."

"I see," Jehan smiled wanly. "Well, I will try, then." He nodded, finally seeming to have convinced himself.

000

"So…what did you think?"

"She's…nice." Joly obviously could not come up with a better word.

"But did you _like _her?"

"Yes, as these things go, but that's not saying much," the medic shrugged. "After all, I'm rather convinced she's somewhat smitten with _you, _dear Eagle."

"Me? Nonsense! She is so obviously _your _type," Bossuet scoffed.

"My type? I wasn't aware I _had _a type, Bossuet. Oh, although I suppose if she can put up with my hypochondria, she may well be worth keeping," he mused. "I'm rather…difficult…in that way."

"Joly, if I can put up with your constant moaning, I'm sure _she _will have no trouble whatsoever," Bossuet replied. "And I suppose I ought to apologize, as well," he added.

"Apologize? For what?" Joly inquired.

"For running out on you without explaining why and where I was going, of course. It was dreadfully rude of me, but you see I couldn't tell you until I had spent ample time with her myself," he explained.

Joly, of course, _didn't _see, but Bossuet had more-or-less always been that way: what seemed perfectly logical to him confused everybody else. So he nodded anyway.

"Excellent! So, when will you see her again?"

"Again," Joly chuckled. "What makes you think she and I will even _want _to meet again?"

"Intuition, my good man. I know these things," Bossuet smiled. "Or shall I set you up again?"

"You had better, because Heaven knows I would never take the initiative by myself," Joly sat down. "But I fear I'm getting a bit of a headache…exciting day and all that."

"A _real _headache?"

"_Yes, _a real headache," Joly sighed, although it was impossible for him to be annoyed with Bossuet for long. "You're back, then?"

"For now," Bossuet nodded. "But sometimes I wonder if I could just…"

"Wouldn't it be easier for you to…"

"Stay here all the time?" They finished simultaneously. Bossuet immediately took to studying his shoes and Joly let out another sigh and leaned back in the chair.

"I shouldn't have been so blunt," Bossuet started after a time.

"No; it's not that. It's just…if we've felt the same way about it, why haven't we ever admitted it before?" Joly explained.

"Pride, partly. You've never been shy about asking me to stay, but I've always felt like I'm intruding…it's not like I make any income; I'm just something else you have to look after," he admitted.

"And I don't see you as a burden at all, Eagle. In fact, it helps me immensely to have somebody to talk to…even if only to bemoan my various ailments to," he added with a smile, and Bossuet smiled back.

"And we're all aware of how often you do _that_," Bossuet rolled his eyes.

"Mock me if you must, but I for one am going to sleep. It's been a long day, and we have a meeting tomorrow," Joly reminded him.

"We practically could have held an impromptu meeting today; we were all present," Bossuet commented.

"True enough," Joly agreed with a smile that soon gave way to a yawn.

"Bed?" Bossuet grinned at his friend.

"Bed."

000

"How bad is it?"

Combeferre paused a moment, wiping his hands off on a spare piece of cloth before perching on the arm of the couch. "Bad enough," he finally stated. "But it could have been much worse. Nothing seems to be broken, and that was my chief concern. However, fractures are fickle things. He should not be moved any more if it can be at all avoided, and I would strongly suggest relocating our meetings to here for a short while. Also…he has to stay," Combeferre glanced at Enjolras.

"I knew that was coming. He tries my patience, André. And I would feel horrible if I happened to lose my temper with an injured man."

"I know. But with that émeute or conflict possibly still going on out there, I think it would be best if all of us stayed for the night," Combeferre admitted.

"Fine enough. But André…where are _you _going to sleep?" Feuilly asked from his position on the couch. Jehan and Enjolras were occupying the only armchairs, and nothing else in the room looked particularly comfortable.

"I think…and I am pretty sure none of you will envy me this…but I think it would be best if I slept with François. From past experience, I know that he tends to move a lot in his sleep, and any movement, especially when involuntary, will only be detrimental to the healing process," Combeferre explained.

"Well, you're right: I certainly don't envy you," Enjolras shrugged. Jehan had somehow managed to curl his lanky body onto his chair, and currently looked like some sort of over-sized cat. Enjolras had one leg slung over the armrest of his chair and was leaning back against the cushion, eyes half-lidded, while Feuilly already seemed to be almost asleep.

"I suppose I should bid you all good-night, then," Combeferre stood up and walked back into the bedroom.

000

"André, we've got a meeting in half an hour."

Combeferre opened his eyes and glanced up at Enjolras, who looked none the worse for wear for having slept in an armchair. His hair was slightly tousled, but there was obvious amusement in his blue eyes. Combeferre realized that he still had an arm wrapped around Courfeyrac.

"He's going to be stiff, is he not?" Enjolras asked.

"Very. I expect his temper will leave something to be desired for a couple of days," Combeferre replied.

"And this is a stretch from his normal behaviour in _what _way?" Enjolras asked with a half-smile.

"Very funny, Apollo." Combeferre gently shook Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Come on, François. Wake up."

"Ugh."

"François, now. Or I won't get you any breakfast," Combeferre threatened.

"I'm up," Courfeyrac muttered. "Why are you so _close?" _

"I had to stop you from moving around; keep your chest stable," Combeferre replied, shifting his arm a little.

"Stop," Courfeyrac closed his eyes. "Give me a minute," he sighed.

"Are you alright?" Enjolras knelt beside the bed. At Courfeyrac's strained nod, he added, "I went to Joly's earlier this morning to inform him of the location change, but I am afraid Bahorel will have to guess for himself where we are, as I have no idea where he is to be found."

"I am sure once he realizes we are not at the _Musain _it will not take him long to figure it out," Combeferre mentioned. "And François, I _really _must move. My arm is growing numb."

"Alright, then," Courfeyrac grimaced. Combeferre slowly drew his arm out and sat up, getting out of the bed after that.

"Can we bring you to the front room? The bedroom is hardly large enough to hold a meeting," Combeferre went to stand in the doorway.

"You can certainly try; I fear I am somewhat inflexible at the moment," Courfeyrac replied, wincing as he attempted to sit up. "Come on, then, Apollo. Beat me to the parlour on your golden chariot."

"I see your humor has not suffered," Enjolras remarked dryly.

"It had better not, for it is currently the only thing I possess," Courfeyrac returned as Enjolras lifted him out of the bed. "My wit, with any luck, shall ever remain intact."

"And I am sure we shall all be thankful for that," Enjolras replied.

"François! How are you?" Feuilly glanced up from the sofa.

"Alive," Courfeyrac replied.

"Well, good," Feuilly smiled. "I prefer it to your being dead. You want me to move?" he asked of Enjolras.

"If you can."

"Of course. I can hardly pretend my injury is so horrible when compared to what those men did to François," he added, shifting over so Enjolras could set Courfeyrac down. "I think we scared poor Jehan, though," Feuilly indicated the still-sleeping poet. "I fear he thinks we have such injuries all the time."

"Yes. Well, yesterday was just a couple of unfortunate circumstances," Enjolras noted, going to wake Jehan. "Prouvaire," he laid a light hand on the boy's arm.

"Hmm? Is it morning?" Jehan uncurled himself with a yawn.

"It is, and we have a meeting beginning soon," Enjolras informed him.

"Oh. Am I…should I stay?" Jehan asked.

"Naturally. You _are _one of us, correct?" Combeferre asked.

"Of-of course," Jehan affirmed with a nod. "I just…"

"If you're worried about getting beaten to within an inch of your life, don't be," Courfeyrac looked up.

"Okay…" Jehan glanced fearfully over.

"Oh, _Dieu_, I'm going to have to explain this to Joly and Bossuet, aren't I?" Courfeyrac groaned.

"Yes, and we all know how Bossuet _loves _asking awkward questions," Feuilly smiled.

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

"Doubtful. That may have been the most idiotic thing you've ever done," Combeferre responded.

"Well, at least I'm not _short_," Courfeyrac shot back, causing the others to laugh, and even Enjolras managed to crack a smile.


	16. Chapter 16

**Once again, thanks for the reviews! This was written after I returned from Vancouver in October, so that's what inspired the rain/fog part. I get a lot of inspiration from where I am/the time of year it is. Go figure. Nothing more to say, so enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine…**

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Nice morning."

"Charming. If thick fog is what floats your proverbial boat, that is," Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. "Look! Can't even see my hand!" He demonstrated by holding out his arm.

"Well, at least it's stopped raining," Enjolras stuck his hands in his pockets as the three men walked down the road. Combeferre considered it a stroke of extreme good fortune that Courfeyrac had not been more injured than he was, but the fact remained that he had practically healed completely in a very short time.

It was a rainy October morning, and they were trekking back to Combeferre's after meeting with the others for breakfast. "Chest still pain you, François?" Combeferre asked.

"Somewhat. But on the whole it's a great deal better," Courfeyrac said.

"Well, I'm glad that…" Combeferre stopped, peering down the road. A woman was standing on his doorstep, looking around with darting glances. "_Mother?_" Combeferre asked incredulously. "Mother, is it really you?" He ran up the stairs.

"André!" Her face lit up as she embraced her son, stepping back a moment later to closer examine him. "You look wonderful! It's been so long since you last wrote; I was beginning to worry. Foolish of me, wasn't it?"

"Not at all. And I _do _apologize, but I have been very busy of late."

"Don't fret about it, my dear," she assured him, her eyes travelling to the other men. "And _you, _Enjolras. You grow more beautiful by the day, I am sure," she beamed.

"It's good to see you again, madam," Enjolras politely inclined his head.

"Must you always be so incessantly _formal?_" Courfeyrac groaned. "But, my good woman, I don't suppose you would remember _me_?" He looked hopeful.

"I think…" she gasped. "Why, François Courfeyrac! It _has _been a long time!"

"Too long, my good woman. And may I say: you haven't aged a bit," Courfeyrac smiled.

"Why, you haven't changed at all!" Mrs. Combeferre laughed before tightly embracing Courfeyrac who, for his part, tried to prevent himself from flinching as the hug put pressure on his chest. Combeferre noticed and said, "Really, mother, let him go! He can't breathe!"

"Oh! Sorry, dear, but I was not expecting to see you here," he apologized.

"No worries, ma'am," Courfeyrac assured her, forcing a smile.

"Forgive me for being blunt, but is there a particular reason why you have sought our your son this morning?" Enjolras brusquely interjected.

"Oh. Yes, there is. André…your father. He…" her breath caught. "He's dead."

"What?" Combeferre staggered a bit, leaning onto the stair railing for support. "How?"

His mother could not respond, however, due to the flood of tears that suddenly overwhelmed her. Enjolras gave his friend a sympathetic glance before assisting the woman inside, and Combeferre sat heavily on the step.

"_Mon Dieu_…I'm sorry, André," Courfeyrac stuck his hands in his pockets, looking decidedly unsure of what to say.

"And I…I never even…I thought…" Combeferre attempted to speak, but the words did not seem to be coming. Eventually he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said, "I have been so caught up in my own life, I never even realized that I had not been writing. I always thought…and this sounds extremely childish…but I had thought that he would always be there. And now…now there are so many things I shall never get to say."

Courfeyrac gently lowered himself to sit beside the other man; rather shocked himself. He had known Robért Combeferre, of course; he had always gone to their house as a child, and the man had always been like a second father to him. "Don't be sad," he finally forced out. "He…" he swallowed. "He would not want you to grieve for him. He'd be proud of you, André. I mean, who _wouldn't _want to have a son like you, and I…oh, _Dieu_, I'm terrible at this consoling business!"

But, much to Courfeyrac's surprise, Combeferre let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he replied. "You're better than you know. And you're right, of course, but at the moment I think the grief is overriding the reason."

"So get it out, then. Get it out and forget it," Courfeyrac said gently, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I think I am in too much shock to even do that at the moment," Combeferre admitted. "No doubt _that _will happen at the…oh, _Dieu_, the _funeral_," he groaned.

"I'll be there," Courfeyrac assured him. "And Enjolras. You don't have to face this alone, _mon ami." _

"I know. What would I do without you?" Combeferre sniffed, although he managed to crack a smile.

"Your life, I fear, would be boring beyond belief," Courfeyrac returned, standing. "Now, come on. Your mother needs some consoling, I imagine."

Combeferre nodded and got to his feet, and the two men gazed at each other for a few moment before finally embracing; Combeferre taking care to be as gentle as he could. "Thank you, François."

"Anytime, my brother. Anytime."

As Combeferre walked through the door, Enjolras emerged from the bedroom and heaved a sigh.

"How is she?"

"Not well, but that is to be expected. And she will not tell me much, but then again, she never truly _liked _me," Enjolras responded.

"That isn't true. The only reason she was standoffish is because…well…"

"It's the way I am."

"Yes," Combeferre admitted. Enjolras hesitated for a moment before reaching to put a hand on Combeferre's shoulder.

"I _am _here for you André. Just so you know," he assured the other. Combeferre gave him a grateful smile before entering the room.

As soon as he was gone, Enjolras walked to the parlour and sat down. Courfeyrac followed, seating himself as well. There was silence for a time until Courfeyrac said, "You don't particularly like me, do you?"

"Whatever would give you that idea?"

"Hmm…let's see…you never talk to me when you can avoid it, you only seem to tolerate me when André is present, you're always sarcastic when you speak or, rather, order me around..." he listed the points on his fingers as he spoke. Enjolras made no motion that appeared the he was listening, so Courfeyrac stopped. "And now you're ignoring me."

"François," Enjolras sighed. "I am…sorry if I come off that way, but I cannot help it. Our morals, I fear, are rather opposite, but that does not mean I despise you. André counts you as a true friend, and his judgment is more than sound, so I would have no reason to hate you."

"Oh. Sorry." They lapsed into silence again.

"The funeral," Enjolras cleared his throat. "Are you...will you be coming with us?"

"I promised André I would. It must be hard on him," Courfeyrac sighed.

Enjolras merely shrugged, his expression unreadable.

"I mean, how would _you _feel if you lost your father?" Courfeyrac pressed.

"I'd be glad, mostly."

"You'd…what?"

"You heard correctly: if my father were to die, I would not grieve. He made me what I am; raised me with an iron fist and the discipline of a soldier. Told me that I must respect my heritage and punished me for showing any sign of individuality. _That _is why I act the way I do, and even if I try to change it, I find myself still under his shadow." As he was speaking, Enjolras had moved to the window and was watching the street intently.

Courfeyrac blinked, feeling more than a little bewildered. André had mentioned these parents briefly, but to hear Enjolras speak of them with such…indifference was rather disconcerting, and despite himself Courfeyrac felt a sense of pity deep inside. "Why would you tell me this?"

"Because I _want _you to come," Enjolras admitted, half-turning. "I _want _my father to meet you, because it would be a fitting payback."

"Because I'm immoral?"

"No; because you're unabashedly _you. _And if there's one thing my father can't stand, it's somebody who is their own person."

"Subtle revenge; tactics I hardly knew you possessed," Courfeyrac grinned, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

"Well, I shan't make a habit of it, but short of telling my esteemed father I am the leader of the revolutionary group, it is about the only proper thing to do," Enjolras returned. "So, I shall tell you this once and once only, François…when you meet my father, be yourself."

"That, my great Apollo, is something I will _gladly _do," Courfeyrac assured him. "So…you do not hate me?"

"_No_," Enjolras sighed, turning fully around. "And no, you can't shake my hand, clasp my shoulder, embrace me or otherwise have physical contact in any way," he warned.

"Ah. Right," Courfeyrac shoved his hands in his pockets as Combeferre re-emerged. "André. How is she?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," Combeferre replied. "Apparently it was a very sudden illness, and it all happened very quickly after that. The funeral's in three days," he added. "She told me to…bring whomever I wished if it would make me feel better, and I had kind of…well, I would like for _all _of us to attend, but if it were just the two of you that would be fine, as well."

"No, we can certainly ask. At any rate, Jehan's parents will be there; my father can hardly attend _any _event, even if it be a funeral, without inviting as many high-profile friends as he can," Enjolras sounded scornful. "And, as I have already mentioned to François, anything I can do to subtly bring him down a few notches would only be an advantage for me."

"Well, true enough, I would say," Combeferre had a small smile on his face. "You two had a conversation while I was occupied?"

"Yes, for François was afraid that I had a rather low opinion of him," Enjolras replied.

"Really? You could have asked _me _about that; if you want to know how Apollo acts around people he _truly _doesn't like, you need only observe how he interacts with Grantaire," Combeferre replied.

"Oh, I suppose that's true," Courfeyrac mused. "But André…are you sure you're alright?"

"In time I will be, I'm sure," Combeferre assured them. "My mother is resting now; she told me she hasn't been able to sleep properly alone in the house since it happened."

"Poor woman. Well, at least she has _me _to cheer her up," Courfeyrac flashed a cheeky grin. "Oh, and will your lovely sister be in attendance as well, André?" he continued.

"Yes, but she's _married now, _so _please _don't get any ideas. It's a funeral, for God's sakes, not a social event!" Combeferre groaned.

"Oh, I know. Don't worry; I shan't disrupt the service. But no doubt there will be a sort luncheon after the fact…and besides, your sister always _liked _me," Courfeyrac shrugged; evidently, in _his_ mind, at least, the matter was settled.

Combeferre, meanwhile, was trying to make a list of all the things that could possibly grow wrong, and it was currently growing at a rapid pace.


	17. Chapter 17

**Update time! Thank you all for your continued reviews, and I hope you enjoy! **

**Oh, and in this chapter, we get to meet Jehan's father. You…well, I won't give it away…**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**Chapter Seventeen**

He stared at the gravestone for a time, musing silently on how different these people's lives were. When a person died on the streets, there was no one to mourn them; no event at which people could wear their best blacks and congregate in front of a single grave under a large tree. No; you were unceremoniously thrown into a mass grave with not even a stone to mark your existence. Like his parents were.

Like his brother was.

He had not even particularly _wanted _to come; he had no suitable clothes; but somehow he had been dragged along by Jehan (and, because the young poet's fashion sense was decidedly non-existent, Joly had come as well) and soon had a new outfit to call his own.

And it was the oddest feeling. No cap, first of all; and he was never seen without it; and his customary scarf and overcoat were replaced by a cravat and vest.

Although, to his credit, nobody had given him looks that indicated they knew he truly did not belong. In fact, he was spoken to much as an equal, although anyone who knew him could easily tell the whole situation made him feel horribly awkward and undignified.

"Sébastien! Care for something to eat?" Jehan came up beside him, a plate of sandwiches in his hand, although his smile faltered as he beheld the fan-maker's forlorn expression. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No; nothing," Feuilly lied, shaking his head.

"There _is_, though," Jehan pressed, but when Feuilly did not respond, he added: "It's horrible, isn't it? To…die, I mean. I have seen so little of death that it is almost surreal."

Feuilly gave a harsh laugh, which cased Jehan to turn and look at him in confusion as he replied, "And I so much. _Gamin _died almost every day; some were killed for no reason. I remember once, this young boy was fighting with a baker over a day-old loaf of bread. A policeman went to assist and as he tore the bread out of the boy's hands, the _gamin _fell backwards through a window. He died, but the police and the baker were more concerned over that stupid loaf of bread than the life of another person.

"And that was common. How many times have I seen skeletal beggars frozen to death as they tried to huddle in doorways, or dying of thirst in the midst of a heat wave? How many have the police killed with unnecessary roughness and felt no sympathy?

"And my parents; dead of some unknown disease. My brother, stabbed to death in an alley. No, Jehan, it is not the death I am horrified at: it is the lack of respect ones like me get merely because we are not wealthy. _That _is what I find so hard to believe." He fell silent, not turning to look at the young man beside him.

Jehan cleared his throat, but he could not form any proper response. So he merely put an arm around Feuilly's shoulders and stood there in silence. "And you know, Jehan? Sometimes I can't help but wonder if they're right," Feuilly sighed after a time.

"Sébastien, don't say that!" Jehan's large eyes were filled with incredulity. "You are human; you feel as we all do. You can get hurt or be loved as we all can. No; money cannot make you a better person."

"I'd like to believe that, you know I would, but…" Feuilly stopped as a man approached them from behind. He was tall, but his height looked to be the only trait passed down to his son. His face was set in a frown, and his dark, cold eyes looked blankly out at the world.

"Jean," the man said gruffly.

"Oh, father! I want you to meet my friend, Sébastien Feuilly!" Jehan exclaimed.

The man regarded Feuilly with a hard gaze. "Who're your parents, boy?"

"I have none."

"What do you do? Go to school?"

"No, sir. I'm…a fan-maker."

"_Peasant_." The man spat the word out as if it tasted bad, and for a moment Feuilly wondered why he had ever idolized this man. "Jean, what did I tell you about consorting with _peasants?"_

"He helped me, Father! He took a bullet for me!" Jehan protested.

"I don't care _what _he's done! You let them get close to you, and then they'll rob you blind and disappear without a trace. Or they'll rob you blind and slit your throat. I know them! I was _raised _by them, but I came out on top, and you know why? Because I trusted no one. Nobody should be trusted unless they have the money to back up their claim. You mark my words, or you'll be sorry, Jean Prouvaire," the man warned.

"It's Jehan," Jehan replied curtly.

"What did you say?"

"My name," Jehan was shaking with suppressed emotion. "It's Jehan. Jean Prouvaire is what they call _you, _but since I have no desire to be who _you _are, I would prefer _not _to be addressed by the same name!"

"What's gotten into you, boy? I'm your father and you shall obey me, and right now I'm forbidding you to ever have contact with that…that _creature _ever again. You've already spent money on his clothes, haven't you?" Jehan's father was livid.

Feuilly had no desire to hear the rest of what was turning into a very private argument, so he carefully snuck away; though he was the focus of the debate, his presence went largely ignored; and walked around for a time, ending up quite suddenly in a small grove through which a quaint brook ran.

"Harsh man, is he not?"

Feuilly looked up to find Enjolras seated in the tree above him, and he climbed up as well when the other man motioned him to.

"I remember him ranting about peasants when he visited us all those years ago. It looks like Jehan is holding his own, though," he continued.

"He is indeed. I would not have even come if I had known…"

"It isn't you," Enjolras stated. "That is, the _argument _may be regarding you, but this moral clash has the look of one that has built up over a long time."

"Ah. And _your _father?"

"Has not even spoken to me," Enjolras permitted himself a small smile. "But no doubt he shall have _more _than enough to say once François is done with him."

"Speaking of which, where is…" Feuilly paused as a woman, perhaps thirty years old, raced by under the tree. She had kicked off her shoes and her long hair was streaming behind her as she ran. The cause of her flight was evident, however, when Courfeyrac himself rushed into the grove, calling: "But Cécile, darling, you _know _we are meant for each other! Admit it: fate has brought us together once more!"

Feuilly put a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, and even Enjolras let out a soft chuckle. "That's André's sister?"

"Indeed. Poor soul."

"At least she does not have to deal with him _all the time_," Feuilly pointed out.

"I heard that!"

They looked down to find Courfeyrac gazing indignantly up at them.

"François, is she playing hard-to-get?" Feuilly inquired.

"Oh, she will succumb. Mark my words."

"Have you seen André?" Enjolras inquired.

"Not since the funeral proper. There would not happen to be room for a third up there, by any chance? I fear chasing dear Cécile has tired me right out," Courfeyrac yawned.

"There may be room, François, but what makes you think you merit an invitation? This is, after all, _my _tree," Enjolras stated, staring down at the other man.

"Is it, now?" Courfeyrac looked vaguely amused. "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but I see no proof to support that claim. You could have at least carved your name in the trunk. What kind of childhood did you have?"

"I didn't; as I'm sure I've told you," Enjolras replied. "And besides, my father would have sooner shot himself in the foot than let me handle a knife."

"You poor, deprived soul," Courfeyrac seemed to forget that he had asked for an invitation and clambered up regardless. "You want to?"

"Carve my name?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that a _little _juvenile?"

"Well, maybe the way to get you to loosen up a bit is to experience your childhood now," he suggested.

"Courfeyrac, that has got to be by far the oddest idea you've ever come up with," Feuilly smiled. "And you have a lot of odd ideas."

"Of course."

"How goes it, gents?" Bossuet and Joly came to stand under the tree.

"This is Apollo's tree. You need Apollo's permission to stand in its awesome presence," Courfeyrac replied.

"And why are _you _sitting in the almighty tree?" Bossuet snorted. "I can't see Apollo inviting _you_."

"I am an exception," Courfeyrac puffed out his chest.

"Of course you are."

"Ah, but how goes it with the little lady, Pierre?" Courfeyrac grinned.

"Well enough," Joly shrugged. "She's a nice girl; we get along well."

"Good. But how…intimate can one get when one shares their apartment with a friend?" he mused, leaning against the trunk and stretching his legs along the branch.

"François!" Joly nearly fell over due to shock; he had to use his cane to keep himself upright.

"It's not like that," Bossuet assured Courfeyrac. "Trust me."

"Oh. Well, what fun is that?"

"Perhaps some of us prefer a more…gradual relationship," Joly said, his cheeks still a furious shade of red.

"Well, I've yet to meet someone who thinks that way," Courfeyrac reached down and plucked Joly's hat off, placing it on his own head.

"You're insufferable," Joly sighed.

"Ah, but you love me for it," Courfeyrac replied with a wink. "I like this hat, by the way."

"Good for you," Joly muttered. "Now, can I have it back?"

"And besides, François, don't you have a…_mission _to complete?" Enjolras asked.

"Ah, has the man himself appeared, then?"

Enjolras nodded, and they all turned to look as a dark-haired, stern-looking man stomped by the grove.

"Work your magic, François."

"Oh, I will. Trust me. Pierre, can I keep the hat for a while? It makes me look distinguished," Courfeyrac hopped down from the tree.

"It makes you look foolish, if you ask _me,"_ Bossuet chimed in.

"Well, I did _not _ask you, so evidently that comment does not exist. I am off!" he exclaimed dramatically before dashing from the grove.

"This could prove entertaining. Care to come watch with me, Pierre?" Bossuet asked.

"Indeed. If only to be sure my hat does not end up in a mud-hole when M'sieur Enjolras begins to express his ire," Joly explained as the two walked off.

"Never a dull moment with the lot of us, is there?" Feuilly asked Enjolras.

"I should hope not," Enjolras replied. "Oh, Feuilly: Jehan is coming this way," he motioned.

"Jehan, up here!" Feuilly called. "Oh…I suppose I should ask you if he can sit in your tree…"

"Stop. I thought you were the sane one," Enjolras sighed.

"Compared to François, we're all sane," Feuilly replied.

"True enough. But Jehan can gladly come up; I need to find André," Enjolras climbed out of the tree, and Jehan came up a moment later.

"Can I talk to you, Sébastien?"

"Of course," Feuilly looked somewhat confused. Why would Jehan ask that? "How did it go with your father?"

"He…ah…threatened to disown me if I dared to so much as look you in the eye again," Jehan explained.

"And?"

Jehan paused before reaching to tip Feuilly's chin up so their eyes met. "Does that give you your answer?" he asked, a small smile playing about his lips.

"Indeed it does. His threat does not concern you, then?"

"My mother will not let him do it, of course," Jehan shrugged. "He'll get over it."

"And if he doesn't?"

"His loss," Jehan shrugged, leaning forward to embrace the older man.

"Jehan!" Feuilly laughed. "You're going to knock us out of the tree!" He returned the embrace only after he was certain it would not land them on the ground. "But thank you. I greatly appreciate your faith in me," he added.

"Naturally. Do you think we should go find the others?" Jehan asked.

"I don't see why not," Feuilly shrugged, and the two set off.


	18. Chapter 18

**New chapter! Okay, so I have decided that the ACTUAL part of the story as per described in my synopsis really ends after about chapter ten, and so the rest of it is more like anecdotes that show a progression through the years and strengthen the bonds the **_**Amis **_**forge with each other…up to a certain point. But I'm not giving away when that is; you'll have to wait for the conclusion! Thanks for all your continued reviews! **

**Oh, and if you thought Jehan's father was nasty, wait until M'sieur Enjolras shows up again…**

**And just a side-note…the Irish/Polish comment that he makes is kind of from "A Streetcar Named Desire," which I had to do a scene from this semester. We asked our drama teacher what the two had to do with each other, and she basically said that they were looked down on by the French because throughout history those two nations had always been poor. **

**Disclaimer: Certainly not mine. Boo. **

**Chapter Eighteen**

"Can you believe we've been gone nearly three years?" Combeferre was laying on his bed, in what used to be his bedroom. His parents had not changed it at all…in fact, they had even created a bedroom for Cécile, who had not set foot in the house since they had purchased it.

"Easily." Enjolras was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. "And, by God, I wish I had not come back."

"He's unhappy with you, then?"

"I cannot say; he has rather been avoiding me all afternoon. But I fear that once François is through with him…" Enjolras grimaced.

"Ah. True enough."

"And Joly and Bossuet went to observe," Enjolras added.

"Oh, Good Lord. Well, your father shall have a wonderful time. Between François' brashness, Pierre's ailments and Bossuet's perpetual bad luck…"

"_Something _is bound to happen," Enjolras finished with a resigned sigh.

"And you did not want to go watch?" Combeferre asked jokingly. "I would have thought that something you rather wanted to see."

"I think I shall hear enough…"

"_And YOU, François de Courfeyrac, owe ME a new HAT!" _

Enjolras and Combeferre both rushed to the window. "What was _that?"_

"Pierre."

"Evidently. But…" Combeferre paused as Courfeyrac ran up to the house.

"Let me in; let me in; let me in," he said rapidly, and Enjolras considered him for a second before grabbing his hand and yanking him through the window. He staggered over to the bed and collapsed on it, breathing heavily. "Mad Pierre and his mad cane of death are after me," he finally offered by way of explanation.

"What did you _do, _François?"

"Well, your dear old father is rather annoyed," he nodded to Enjolras. "However, he found the hat seriously un-amusing. So much so, it appears, that he found the need to shoot it off my head with a pistol. Of course, this made Pierre rather angry," he explained.

" 'Rather angry?'" They turned to find Joly clambering through the window, looking less-than-amused. "_You _are going to buy _me _a new _hat_," Joly repeated, holding his cane toward Courfeyrac in a rather threatening manner.

"Pierre, let it g…"

They all flinched as Bossuet somehow managed to catch his foot on the broad window-ledge and end up face-first on the floor.

"Serves you right, Eagle. You men have never heard of a useful invention called a _door_, have you?" Feuilly asked from the doorway; Prouvaire behind him. Grantaire appeared as well, shrugging them aside so he could get into the bedroom.

"But a window proves much more interesting." Bahorel was sitting in said window, looking completely at ease and with a glass of wine in his hand.

"Why has my bedroom become a meeting place?" Combeferre asked, although he was currently thankful that his room was rather large.

"It happens to be convenient," Courfeyrac shrugged. "We're all here, after all."

"Unfortunately," Enjolras muttered, his eyes fixed on Grantaire, who had somehow managed to procure an entire bottle of wine and was swilling it back at an alarming pace. "Remind me again why we invited him."

Combeferre shook his head. "I invited Richard because technically he is one of us; he's never missed a meeting, after all…not counting our impromptu one at your place," Combeferre explained.

Enjolras was about to reply when a fearsome yell sounded from the entrance hall. "_ENJOLRAS!" _

Everyone in the room flinched, and Enjolras muttered, "_This _ought to be fun," before calling out, "Yes, Father?"

The sound of heavy footsteps rang down the hall and a few moments later Monsieur Enjolras had arrived in the doorway.

"_What _have you got to say for yourself, boy? You show up here without saying a word to your mother or I, surrounded by this rag-tag bunch of fools, and expect me to…Good Lord, boy, what are you wearing?" The man's tirade cut off in a sputter as he noticed his son's waistcoat.

"It's all the rage in Paris, Father," Enjolras replied casually, turning to look out the window.

"_Don't _walk away from me, you ungrateful child!" The man snapped, causing everyone, with the exception of Enjolras, to flinch again. "I was speaking to M'sieur Prouvaire, and he says that his son has become unmanageable as well. Apparently he's consorting…" his father's voice dropped a few decibels, "with _peasants_." If possible, he spoke with even more contempt than Jehan's father. "Is that true, boy?" He turned to Jehan, who had placed his arm protectively around Feuilly's shoulders.

"What does Jehan have to do with anything?" Enjolras asked in a low voice.

"I assumed that if he is friends with riff-raff, you would be as well. Was I mistaken?"

"Not at all," Enjolras turned away again.

"Personally, I believe that peasants are rather desirable to bourgeois," Bahorel cut in, taking a sip of his wine. "It seems to me that all excess money does is obscure reason. My parents are farmers, you see, and I _much _prefer it to their being nobles."

"And what's _your _name?" M'sieur Enjolras scowled.

"Tristan Bahorel."

"What do you do?"

"I…" Bahorel struck a noble pose, "am a loafer." Courfeyrac and Bossuet burst out laughing, and M'sieur Enjolras turned a vicious shade of red.

"You've some Irish in you; no wonder you're poor. Only one thing worse than being Irish, and that's being Polish," he continued. An instant hush fell over the room, and Enjolras' father continued, "What? It's not like any of _those _are around, is it?"

"Of course not," Enjolras snapped, making a point not to look at Feuilly. "Now, if you would be so kind as to…"

"Oh, no. I'm not leaving. Not until I teach you a lesson. You think this is all a game, don't you? New clothes; showing off for the whores, is that it? Listen, boy, when God gifts a man with beauty _and _brains, they should only pay attention to the brains! I thought we had raised you better than that. But tell me, you spoiled brat, how many dirty tramps have you let into your bed?" He stopped, and Enjolras stared him down; fists clenched at his sides.

"And really, Father, I thought you knew me well." His tone was eerily calm. "I can assure you, I have not so much as even _looked _at a woman that way. Now, I believe we would all appreciate it if you would _leave us alone_."

Apparently this wasn't the answer his father was expecting, because the elder Enjolras was shocked into silence. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Enjolras still had a look of murderous calm about him.

Feuilly cleared his throat and said, "Thank you. For not telling him."

"Yes, and give him one more reason to hate me?" Enjolras snorted. "It's none of his business, Feuilly, and I could care less."

"About what? Sébastien?" Jehan looked at the orphan.

"My mother was Polish; I was born in Poland," Feuilly shrugged.

"Oh. Is that all?" Jehan looked confused. "I thought it was something worse."

Feuilly stiffened at the words and looked at Enjolras, who nodded. "Jehan, can I talk to you? Privately?"

"Of course." Jehan's look of confusion deepened as he followed Feuilly out of the room.

"He's going to tell him?" Combeferre asked Enjolras.

"He has to. He's told all of us, but Jehan seems to have forged quite the bond with him," Enjolras replied.

"They're both artistic," Bahorel commented. "Although, I can't see this ending well. Not with what Jehan's father was preaching," he added.

"Jehan's defended him against everything else," Courfeyrac pointed out.

"Yes, but somehow I doubt that Feuilly's admission of being a killer will strike Jehan as a noble thing," Bahorel continued.

"He didn't mean it!"

"All the same, it goes against everything Monsieur Prouvaire has told his son," Enjolras agreed. "Jehan thinks that Feuilly is the opposite of what he's been taught peasants are, and yet this proves that maybe he isn't quite so different as Prouvaire originally thought."

A loud snoring in the corner reminded them of Grantaire's presence; having finished his wine, he had dropped off to sleep.

"Your father…" Joly started after a time, turning to Enjolras.

"Charming man, isn't he?" Courfeyrac quipped.

"Yes, he has always been that way. Needless to say, it does not take much to convince him I spend my free time seducing the women of Paris, does it?" Enjolras sat on the bed.

From down the hallway, there was the sound of hurried footsteps, and a few moments afterward Feuilly came back into the bedroom.

"Well? What did he say?" Bossuet demanded.

"It seems there's more of his father in him than I first thought," Feuilly let out a sigh. "Needless to say, we're not speaking at the present time."

"What's his problem, anyway? A minute ago he was ready to defend you," Courfeyrac pointed out, looking annoyed.

"It seems that by telling him what I did, I am now no better than any other vagrant from the streets. For some reason, he believed me entirely virtuous," Feuilly turned to Courfeyrac and raised an eyebrow.

"Heh." Courfeyrac looked at the floor. "I didn't lie to him."

"No, but neither did you tell the whole truth. If I were _that _virtuous, I would no longer be alive," Feuilly said.

"He'll come around," Combeferre supplied. "You'll see each other a lot. He can't go on ignoring you forever."

"You're still alright sharing a room?" Enjolras asked.

"Oh, _Dieu_, I forgot about that…it's fine," Feuilly waved a hand. "It'll be fine. You're sure your esteemed father will still let us sleep in his house?"

"No doubt he shall do an extensive tally of our silver tomorrow, but he would not refuse," Enjolras replied.

Feuilly looked ready to respond, and Courfeyrac cut in. "And don't you _dare _offer to sleep outside, Feuilly. Because I know that's what you were about to say."

"Alright. I won't," Feuilly smiled.

"But you were going to?"

"Yes," Feuilly admitted.

"This is all very entertaining, _mes amis_, but what are we doing for dinner?" Bahorel asked.

"Don't worry about that; we've got it all sorted out," Combeferre assured them. "As long as your father does not disrupt _that _as well."

"I'd like to see him try," Enjolras replied. "Besides, the servants _always _preferred me over my father. I told them to serve up an exceptional meal, and that is what they shall do. If my father's food is a bit slow in being made, so be it," he shrugged. "But we should go; it shall be ready soon."


	19. Chapter 19

**Hey, all! Sorry for the delay; had exams last week and all! But I'm back with a new chapter! And I've realized something…I'm writing Chapter Twenty-Five at the moment (which, incidentally, is rather Yuletide-themed), but by the time I post it…it won't be Christmas any longer. Hmm…But it goes that way with most of my fics. I'll write stuff based on whatever's happening at the moment, and by the time it's posted it doesn't make much sense anymore…And I apologize in advance for the bad poetry. **

**Anyway, I've rambled enough. Thanks for the reviews! And enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Nope. Still not. **

**Chapter Nineteen**

Dinner was a strained affair. The tension in the room was thick, although none of them would acknowledge it. Jehan looked decidedly wary, as if all of them were suddenly going to reveal they were mass murderers.

After they were finished eating, they dispersed once more. Feuilly went outside, thankful he could change out of the stuffy suit and into his old clothes. It was growing dark, but the October air was mildly crisp; a slight breeze blew through the almost-barren trees and ruffled the frayed edge of his scarf. Standing in the open meadow, he gazed up at the heavens and let the immensity of the moment calm him.

"Feuilly! Can I join you?"

Feuilly turned around, a smile gracing his slim features. "Naturally, Pierre. But I just stepped out for some air."

"I as well. I hate staying too long indoors; all that dust clogs up my sinuses something awful. Which is the _other _good thing about this time of year: everything I'm allergic to is no longer in season," he proclaimed.

Feuilly chuckled softly. "True enough."

"You're a good man, you know?" Joly said after a time. "And I wouldn't worry about Jehan. I'm sure he'll come around," he added.

"Thank you, Pierre. I can only hope he will," Feuilly sighed. Joly placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"If you want, you can move into my room and I'll send Bossuet to stay with Jehan for tonight," he offered.

"I'll be fine; I'm sure," Feuilly smiled again. "But thank you for offering."

"Oh, drat. I had hoped to spend one night away from that Eagle; he snores so terribly loudly that it's a wonder the neighbours haven't made a fuss," Joly exclaimed dramatically. "Of course, being all in the same house, we shall all no doubt have to suffer through his late-night serenade no matter _what _room you may be in," he added.

Feuilly stifled a laugh and stared back up at the clear sky. "Maybe I _should _sleep out here, then. If nothing else, it shall be quieter," he quipped.

"Oh, he's not so bad. Gets very offended when one teases him about it, though. Likes to deny the whole thing. It's rather humorous, actually; he turns the most remarkable shade of scarlet," Joly relayed all this in a mock-serious way, and at the end Feuilly did not even bother to mask his laughter. Joly joined in soon afterward, and the two men laughed for a few moments.

"You know," Feuilly said once their laughter had subsided. "That made me feel a lot better."

"They don't call me 'Joly' for nothing," Joly replied. "Although… I don't know if I have ever heard you laugh like that before. It's a nice laugh; you should not be ashamed of it."

"Oh, I'm not. But I fear that there has not been much to laugh about in my life," Feuilly explained.

"Hmm…well, you want to go back inside? I think some of our esteemed friends are trying to see who can consume the most leftover wine before falling out of their chair. It should prove entertaining, if nothing else," Joly suggested.

"Why not?" Feuilly shrugged.

000

"Uggh…"

"Well, drink more, why don't you?" Combeferre rolled his eyes.

"Head…hurts…"

"As I said, I fail to see how this is _my _problem."

"Uggh…"

"Not very articulate when he's drunk, is he?" Bahorel glanced over.

"Unlike yourself?" Feuilly raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed. Grantaire passes out; Courfeyrac here trails into random muttering; but _I _stay as eloquent as ever."

"And I'm sure we're all thankful for _that_," Bossuet rolled his eyes.

"Need I remind you who has yet to fall off their chair?" Bahorel asked.

"I didn't fall off because I was drunk! I fell off because…"

"You're clumsy," Joly finished. "I thought by now you would _know _better than to partake in contests where you would automatically lose due to your insufferable bad luck," he shrugged. "It's a wonder you haven't burnt my apartment down yet, now that I think of it."

"You're so cruel to me," Bossuet griped.

"I still won," Bahorel continued. "And I think that for _that_, I deserve another glass."

"Are you going to be able to walk to my house?" Combeferre asked Courfeyrac, who was now lamenting the orchestra that seemed to have decided playing in his skull was a novel idea.

"Uggh…violins…"

"Violins?"

" 'Ferre, make them stop!"

"Oh, brother," Combeferre groaned.

"Is he always like this?" Feuilly asked.

"Unfortunately. He drinks like he's dying of thirst, but it always turns him into a babbling idiot. Of course, he normally would not let me get away with calling him that, but in this state he's hardly fit to make any snide comebacks," Combeferre added with a smile.

000

Enjolras stood on one of the outside balconies, content to drown in his own solitude rather than alcohol. He leant on the railing and looked down at the ground, his eye traveling up the landscape to the still-rising ¾ moon. The sky was breathtakingly clear, and it had been years since he had enjoyed the vastness of a country night; the silence was never so absolute back in Paris.

As he was contemplating, the slow melody of a flute-song reached him. He walked along the terrace until he came upon Jehan, who was seated on the rail with one leg hanging over the edge.

"What are you playing?"

"Hmm?" Jehan lowered the flute. "Oh. A requiem; a funeral-song. I suppose it suited my mood," he added.

"You've no desire to join their drinking-game either, then?"

"No; hardly. You can imagine what _my _father thought of drunkenness: 'behaviour fit for spineless peasants, Jean; not befitting out status in any way,'" he gave a wry chuckle.

Enjolras made no comment, but merely leaned on the railing again.

"When did he tell you?" Prouvaire asked quietly.

"The day we met," Enjolras replied. "It was hard for him to admit it, of course, but he told me."

"And you told him he shouldn't concern himself over it?"

"I did."

"I wish I could do the same. It's not that I think any less of him…it's just…I don't know. It was a shock," Jehan sighed.

"I won't hold it against you; it might take some getting used to," Enjolras assured the younger man. "He's slightly upset about it, though."

"He would be. I spend all day defending him and then walk away when he gets the courage to tell me something of that nature. Because he didn't have to tell me; it could have remained a secret for eternity," Jehan pointed out.

"Feuilly would never want to keep secrets," Enjolras shook his head. "It's not in his nature."

"Are you saying it _is _in yours?"

"I'm afraid so. There are many things not even André knows. I could never tell anyone, you see, because how can I expect them to accept something I myself do not?"

Jehan appraised the other silently for a time before nodding his agreement. "I understand. I think. Sometimes I wonder if I really am who I claim to be. I fervently believe I am not like my father, but when it comes time to prove it…" he shrugged helplessly.

"You're _not _your father," Enjolras said sternly.

"And you are not yours," Jehan countered. "Do you think he shall apologize?"

"For insinuating that I associate with prostitutes? Not likely. It's not in his nature to accept when he is wrong, even if he _knows _it to be the case," Enjolras explained.

They was silence for a few more moments before Jehan said, "You make me want to write."

"What?"

"Poetry. I haven't been…at least, not lately. I've been suffering from severe writer's block," he laughed. "But there's something about you…"

"I'm flattered," Enjolras smiled. "But I hardly see why I would inspire that in anybody. I am merely who I am; sometimes I may wish it were different, but I can hardly be ashamed of myself," Enjolras stared up at the sky for a moment. "In the end, it may not matter, one way or the other."

Jehan followed his eyes and concentrated on the sky, his lips moving soundlessly as he composed the words to his latest poem. _When fire and ice converge as one, they build a pathway to the sun. _

000

"Thank you all for coming. It means so much to me that André's found such wonderful friends!" Madame Combeferre smiled at all of them at breakfast the next morning.

"It wasn't any trouble, ma'am," Feuilly assured her, tipping his cap. "It would have been rude not to, especially because your son has done so much for me," he added.

"Bright lights…loud noises…"

"Oh, dear. Did François have too much to drink?" she asked concernedly. "Well, perhaps I can whip something up that will help with his headache."

"Uggh."

"He means 'thank you,'" Bossuet informed her.

"I'll be back right away," she bustled out of the dining room.

"Don't say anything," Courfeyrac mumbled, directing this comment mostly at Combeferre. "It's my own fault."

"Well, it _is_," Bahorel shrugged. "Nobody forced you into the game."

"I _should _have won," Grantaire complained, staring sullenly at his breakfast.

"Perhaps not being drunk when the game began may have helped," Enjolras cut in.

"My, is he always this cheerful in the mornings?"

Enjolras glared at Bahorel for this last comment, and everyone else tried their best to stifle their laughter.


	20. Chapter 20

**Merry Christmas to all! It's almost over here, but I wanted to post this anyway! Didn't re-read it, so I apologize for any mistakes…Hopefully I'll get to look over it sometime:)**

**Thanks for all the reviews, and even though this ISN'T a Christmas chapter, hopefully you can find some fuzzy moments within the drama. Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Still not mine…**

**Chapter Twenty**

"You're still fighting, aren't you?" Enjolras put this question to Feuilly a few weeks later.

"No. That is, not outright," he amended. "He still distrusts me, I think. But then, I can hardly blame him for it."

"He has do reasod to," Joly shook his head. It was November, and as a general rule of thumb, Joly _always _got a cold when the weather got colder. "It doesn't change who you are."

"_He _thinks it does."

"So, why are you comig wid us to pick hib up for dinner, then?"

"Because I _know _I can make him see reason. I just don't know how," Feuilly admitted.

"Do you fellows smell smoke?" Enjolras stopped.

"Come to mention it, I do…"

"Nobe. But thed, I can't smell anythig," Joly blushed.

"There!" Enjolras pointed. A cloud of black smoke was billowing into the sky.

"Jehan's place is over there!" Feuilly exclaimed.

"Let's hurry."

They got onto the road to find Jehan's house a mass of flames. Feuilly and Enjolras glanced at each other for barely a second before running up the stairs. Joly muttered something about smoke inhalation before sighing and dashing in after them.

"Jehan. Jehan!" Feuilly coughed. There was a crackling sound from above and a flaming beam fell from upstairs. Enjolras grabbed Feuilly around the chest and pulled him back. "Where could he be?"

They opened the parlour door. "Jehan!" Feuilly ran to the poet, who was slumped over his writing desk.

"Hmm?" Jehan glanced up, his eyes widening. "W-what…"

"We have to get out of here!" Enjolras was watching the door fearfully.

Jehan scrabbled around his desk, stuffing as many books and poems as he could into his arms. They rushed from the house; the smoke was growing thicker by the moment. As they gained the steps, Jehan stopped. "Wait! My flute!"

"Jehan, it's too late for that!"

Feuilly hesitated for a moment before turning around and re-entering the building. He coughed, bringing his scarf over his mouth to stifle the fumes, before groping his way to the desk in the entrance hall. Pulling open the drawer, he felt around for the box. Finding it, he pulled it out and tucked it under his arm, turning around and heading back out. He heard a giant snap behind him and all but dove through the doorway. Landing awkwardly on the porch, he scrambled up and dashed across the street just as a curtain of flame burst through the door.

Stumbling onto the sidewalk, he dropped to his hands and knees and started coughing violently; he could still taste the smoke in his mouth.

"Feuilly." Enjolras pulled him to his feet. "Why would you…"

"Jehan," he forced out. The poet walked over, looking slightly apprehensive. "Here," Feuilly held out the flute. Jehan looked at it once before taking it almost reverently.

"Thank you. But you shouldn't have."

"Of course I should have!" Feuilly assured him. "I had to prove myself…"

He was cut off as Jehan grabbed him in a fierce embrace, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You didn't have to prove yourself! But I'm glad you did," he admitted. "_Dieu, _Sébastien, you could have died!"

"I'm fine," Feuilly laughed slightly, returning the hug.

"I've been an idiot." Jehan finally pulled back. "A true idiot, to think that you were any different from who I first thought you to be. Can you ever forgive me?"

"I was never angry with you," Feuilly assured him. "But…your house…what happened?"

"I must have left the candle burning and fallen asleep," Jehan admitted sheepishly. "At least I got most of my papers out."

"You're lucky we came when we did," Enjolras cleared his throat. "Otherwise…"

Jehan shuddered. "I know. Thank you all."

"Dis smoke has plugged by dose up bore," Joly complained. "It's not good for by health."

"I'm sorry. But thank you ever so much for coming to save me," Jehan embraced him as well before turning and nodding to Enjolras, knowing better than to attempt a hug with him.

"But where shall you live now?" Feuilly asked.

"With me, for the time being," Enjolras said. "We'll send off a letter to your parents tonight explaining the tragedy."

"Oh, thank you!" Jehan beamed, but then his face fell. "My parents will not be happy."

"Then don't tell theb the truth," Joly suggested. "Say it was a…a…a-choo!...Ad accidet," he finished, blushing.

The others laughed, and Joly glared at them. "Cobe on, though. We're goig to be late for dinner."

000

"There. All set. Now, I just have to hope they believe me," Jehan set his pen down and re-read the letter.

"About it being an accident? Who's going to say otherwise?" Courfeyrac asked; lounging on the couch. "Wish I could have been there, though."

"Believe me, you don't," Enjolras replied darkly. "Why didn't you go to the theatre with Pierre, Bossuet and André? You tease Joly incessantly about his mistress, and tonight, when you could have seen her, you come over here."

"Simple," Courfeyrac shrugged. "And obvious, I would think: if dear Musichetta were to ever see me, I fear poor Pierre would find himself woman-less."

"_Some_one has a high opinion of himself," Feuilly laughed. "Oh, and Jehan, be sure to put something along the lines of, 'I have seen the light and broken off my ill-fated friendship with the filthy street-rat,'" he instructed, scanning the letter.

"Sébastien!"

"No; it's a valid point," Enjolras agreed. "Even if it isn't true, how are they to ever find out?" he asked.

"What? Is that truly Apollo speaking? Advocating _lying_, no less," Courfeyrac looked highly amused.

"Don't try and be sarcastic, François," Enjolras rolled his eyes with a sigh.

"What if my parents come to Paris? They may, if only to find me a new place to live," Jehan looked worried.

"I'll make myself scarce," Feuilly promised. "Besides, I doubt your father would even recognize me if he saw me. After all, at our last meeting, I looked almost respectable."

"You looked almost noble," Courfeyrac countered. "And it scared me."

"Believe me, I don't see how you fellows can dress like that every day. It's horribly restricting," he commented.

"Not compared to the outfits my parents had me wear," Enjolras grimaced. "I could barely move in some of those contraptions."

"So _that's _why your dear Papa got all red in the face over your lovely slimming waistcoat."

"I knew he would," Enjolras admitted. "Not _only _was it comfortable, but it actually looked like it fit."

"What about your mother?" Courfeyrac asked.

"She isn't much better. Maybe not quite as strict; but my father always has the final word," Enjolras said.

"Have you spoken to them since the funeral?"

"Once, in a letter. My father inquired as to whether I was still friends with 'the peasant' and 'that horribly vain boy with awful taste in hats,'" he quoted.

"Ah, good. I made a lasting impression," Courfeyrac leaned back on the couch, looking rather pleased with himself. "You should bring your parents to visit. I'd like to charm your mother," he added with a wink.

"There. How's this?" Jehan handed his letter to Feuilly, who read it and laughed.

"You make me sound wonderfully appealing, don't you think?" Feuilly passed it back.

"Too much?" Jehan looked scared.

"Not at all. But, after reading this, I seriously believe you think me scum," he added. Jehan looked embarrassed, so Feuilly added, "I know you don't," with a smile at the expression on the young man's face and, putting a hand on his shoulder, he continued, "Believe me. But you _are _a talented writer, and I would expect no less of you than for your writing to be effective and convincing."

"Feuilly, you've never been to school, and yet you use bigger words than I do," Courfeyrac commented.

"I would think that would embarrass you, François," Enjolras put in.

"It does in a way, I suppose. But I'm so proud of our little orphan!" Courfeyrac swept off Feuilly's hat and ruffled his hair affectionately.

"Give it back," Feuilly scowled, and somehow he ended up chasing Courfeyrac around the room until he bodily tackled the other man onto the sofa.

Combeferre entered at that moment, followed by Joly and Bossuet.

"Gentlemen, I would ask you what you're doing, but I'm not sure I want to know," Bossuet admitted.

"François de Courfeyrac, whad is it wid you ad stealig hats?" Joly asked. "Feuilly, can I help you teach hib a lesson?"

"Thank you for offering, Pierre, but I think I've got it under control," Feuilly said, pinning Courfeyrac to the couch and plucking the hat out of his hand.

"Feuilly…could you kindly remove your not-at-all heavy body from my chest, please?"

"Oh! Sorry," Feuilly sprang up. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No; I'm fine," Courfeyrac got up slowly, but he smiled nonetheless.

"Led thad be a lesson, François," Joly intoned. "Neber come between a man ad his hat."

"How was the theatre?" Jehan asked.

"Don't ask Pierre; he did not watch a thing. He had eyese only for his 'Chetta," Bossuet teased.

"Quied," Joly was blushing.

"She's nice," Combeferre assured him. "You make a good couple."

"She puts ub wid me," Joly conceded. "I just worry she'll wadt to move too fast. Whad if she wadts to live wid be?"

"Well, I can always leave…"

"No; ad I thought we were neber goig to speak of thad agaid," Joly glared at Bossuet.

"Just making sure you remembered," Bossuet grinned. "No woman will ever come between us, right?"

"I would hope nod. Besides, I thoughd you had do interest id her," Joly glanced at his friend suspiciously.

"I don't," Bossuet assured him. "But you have to admit that…"

A loud 'bang,' from outside the window silenced his comment, and they all raced to the window to see what the dispute was about.


	21. Chapter 21

**Hey! It's my first post of '08, and since I'm going back to start college again tomorrow, I figured I'd better get this out. Thanks once more for the continued support of this story (I now have 2000+ hits!), and I hope you all enjoy!**

**Disclaimer:….Nope……still not……..**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"What _was _that?" Jehan's eyes were wide.

"I have no idea," Enjolras moved to the door and opened it, sniffing the air. "It smells like smoke again."

"And well it should!"

He looked up to find Bahorel standing on the sidewalk, wearing a bright red waistcoat that clashed horribly with his hair.

"Gentlemen, I have the great honor of announcing to you the start of what will no doubt be a splendid émeute," Bahorel exclaimed.

"They're fighting?"

"Quite. I am off to join in, of course. Any of you care to join me?" he asked.

"Where is it? By the river?" Courfeyrac asked anxiously.

"Indeed."

"I guess I might just be forced to go with, then; if I am to get home tonight," Courfeyrac shrugged.

"Very well; let's be on our way. With any luck, they'll have enough weapons for us when we get there," Bahorel added with a wink.

"You're not going to fight?" Jehan looked mortified.

"And why not? I thought our society was _supposed _to fight," Bahorel countered.

"Not until the proper time," Enjolras said. "This is a passing thing. Getting involved would be a horrible mistake."

"Speak for yourself," Bahorel shrugged. "Anyone else want to come along?"

"Why not?" Bossuet looked at Joly, who vehemently shook his head, but Bossuet said, "Well, _I'm _going."

"Good. Let's be off, then," Bahorel proclaimed as they headed off.

"Fools; all of them," Enjolras muttered.

"They'll be alrighd, though. Wod't dey?" Joly looked anxious.

"I'm sure they'll be fine. It'll probably be over by the time they get there," Feuilly assured him.

"He'll shood hibself," Joly groaned. "Mark by words: nobody on the other side need touch hib, because he'll shood hibself!"

"Calm down, Pierre," Combeferre told the other man. "We'll go tomorrow morning and see what, if anything, has happened. Chances are they won't even get a chance to _hold _a gun."

But Joly did not look convinced.

000

"Stéphen!" Bahorel called as they gained the barricade. A man about their age with short auburn hair turned around at the call and smiled.

"Tristan, you made it! And you brought friends?"

"Some. Stéphen, these are François and Bossuet," Bahorel said.

"Good. We can always use help. Things are going better than I could have expected, but we can always use more men," he winked.

"Better safe than sorry, ay?" Bahorel laughed.

"Right. You three go get yourselves equipped; I have a job to do," he waved and set off.

"He's the leader?" Courfeyrac asked.

"He's rather good. Doesn't possess nearly the demeanour Apollo does, but he's a good deal more pleasant."

"Enjolras can be as pleasant as he wants to," Courfeyrac smiled, but his eyes were darting around nervously. "What are…what are our chances?"

"Don't worry," Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder. "If it gets crazy, we can cut and run at any time," he assured them. "I've been through a bunch of these and have never even acquired so much as a scratch." He led them to the weapons' store and gave them rifles. "Come on."

They moved to the barricade, and Stéphen came back over. "It's quiet," he informed them, peering over the top. "So. Where are the rest of you? I thought you had been talking about some wonderful new leader?"

"He _is _wonderful," Bahorel assured him. "But he's wary…too young to want to throw everything away, I would think. He's only nineteen," he added.

"Nineteen? That _is _young," Stéphen agreed. "And caution, I suppose, is not always a bad thing," he shrugged. "But I have to move on; make sure they don't pull anything funny," he walked away.

Courfeyrac glanced over the barricade, his eye scanning the distant torches that marked the line of Guard.

"If you don't want to shoot, stay low," Bahorel suggested. "I'll give you updates from here."

"Okay," Courfeyrac readily agreed, dropping below the barricade.

"Come on. What's the worst that could happen?" Bossuet asked with a grin.

At that moment, there was a shout of "Fire!" from down the street, and the night air was rent with the sound of rifle shots and cannon blasts.

The barricade withstood the impact, though barely, and Bahorel jumped back down. "Best to cut this short, lads. She won't last much longer."

"But can we…" Courfeyrac cut off and had to muffle a yell as a body dropped down beside them. He was dead; sightless eyes staring unseeing at the star-filled sky.

And he wasn't much older than all the rest of them. Seeing it made Courfeyrac feel ill.

"Go," Bahorel said, but it was gentle, and he gave Courfeyrac a light push, although he hardly needed any urging. They scrambled down just as another blast rocked the barricade. Courfeyrac froze and Bossuet nearly ran into him as he stared at the barricade.

"Come on," Bossuet urged, and just as they had started to move, Courfeyrac spied someone sprawled along the barricade, and it took him only a moment to realize it was Stéphen. "Wait," he bid the other men before bending down. "S-Stéphen?"

Stéphen looked up, his hazel eyes filled with pain. His hands were clutched over his stomach, and Courfeyrac could see blood seeping through. "Oh… 'S you," he muttered, his voice weak.

"Gents…" Bahorel stopped, his eyes widening. "Pick him up, and let's get to your place," he motioned to Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac and Bossuet complied, and they headed to Courfeyrac's, which was merely a couple of blocks away.

"I really wish Joly were here," Bossuet commented as they reached the front stairs. Luckily, Courfeyrac lived on the same side of the barricade they were on, so it was fairly quiet on the roads.

"Sorry about the mess, but we have no choice," Bahorel said.

"It's fine. As long as we can save him," Courfeyrac replied, going to light a lamp.

Stéphen groaned as they placed him on the sofa and continued to hold a hand over his abdomen. _"Dieu_…"

"What happened? Speak to me," Bahorel took his other hand and held it tightly, only a slight wideness to his eyes belying any fear.

"Don't know. Piece of…something…" he coughed, his body writhing. "Not a bullet," he clarified when the fit had passed.

"We need Combeferre," Bahorel sighed. "I don't…there's nothing I can do except staunch the bleeding, but that may not be enough. François…"

"I'll go," Courfeyrac nodded, his stomach clenching from the sighed of so much blood. He raced out the door.

"Who…"

"Shh. A friend of ours; he works as a surgeon over at Necker," Bahorel explained. "Bossuet, can you find me some linen; old shirts; anything?"

"Of course," Bossuet headed off.

"I'm an idiot…I think I could take lessons from that godly friend of yours," Stéphen chuckled.

"Maybe you'll live to meet him." The amount of blood was alarming Bahorel, but he stayed calm.

He had to.

000

" 'Ferre!" Courfeyrac burst through the door, stumbling into the room and collapsing on the floor.

"François…what…"

"My place…hurry…" Courfeyrac gasped out.

"But…"

"Darn it, André, go!"

"All right. Pierre," Combeferre turned to Joly, who nodded, and the two raced out.

"What happened?" Enjolras demanded.

"A…friend of Bahorel's. We took him to my place, but…" Courfeyrac shuddered.

"It's over, then?" Feuilly asked.

"It was over almost before it began," Courfeyrac sighed. "And…_Dieu_, it was horrible. The blood; the death…"

"Death is rarely ever pleasant," Feuilly crossed his arms. "Speaking from experience," he added.

Courfeyrac slowly got off of the floor and moved to the sofa, sinking down heavily.

"This man…how bad is it?"

"I'm no doctor," Courfeyrac replied. "But it _looked _bad; he's in a lot of pain. Bahorel was great about everything, though; he stayed perfectly calm."

"He should be; he's been through enough of them," Enjolras shrugged. "We'll go back to your house in the morning, but until then, we should get some rest."

000

"Hurry," Combeferre urged Joly as they neared Courfeyrac's.

"I'b goig as fast as I cad," Joly panted, leaning heavily on his cane. They had skirted the remains of the barricade and reached Courfeyrac's place, and Combeferre bounded up the stairs; Joly following more slowly.

"Good," Bahorel looked relieved as he opened the door.

Combeferre took one look at Stéphen and grimaced. "Oh, _Dieu_…" He moved to the sofa and knelt, his experienced eyes scanning the wound.

"You're…the surgeon?" Stéphen asked weakly.

"I am. Don't worry; we're going to do everything we can for you," Combeferre assured him.

"Here's some more linen," Bossuet ran back in.

"Oh, thank Heaven! You didn't shoot yourself!" Joly exclaimed, seemingly unaware of the fact that his nose no longer seemed to be plugged.

"You're mean, Pierre," Bossuet crossed to his friend and grabbed him in a hug.

"I was worried."

"I didn't shoot _any_thing," Bossuet assured him. "But you should go help Combeferre," he added, letting go of the other man.

000

Some time later, Joly was asleep on one of the armchairs and Bossuet was sprawled on the floor at his feet, leaning against his friend's legs.

"What are his chances?" Bahorel asked, looking about ready to fall asleep on his feet.

"It's hard to say. Not knowing him as a person, it's nearly impossible to tell how well he will recover. Out of all the things like it I've seen…maybe half of them live. It all depends," Combeferre sighed. "If he makes it through the night, he has a good chance."

"So all we can do it wait?" Bahorel sat. "It's going to be a long night."

Combeferre nodded his agreement. "You can get some sleep. I need to be awake in case something goes wrong."

"You sure?"

"More than," Combeferre assured him. "The others will be over in the morning, so I can only hope we don't have a funeral to arrange."

"As do I. He's too good of a man to die as cruelly as this," Bahorel replied.

"Well, get some rest. We've done all we can."


	22. Chapter 22

**Alright, here's the next chapter! This story still has a question mark beside how long it will eventually be, but I'm aiming for an even thirty chapters. I'm almost done chapter twenty-seven, so hopefully I can find enough information to fill up three more chapters! I know how it's going to end; I've known it since the beginning, which is usually how I work…if I know how one of my stories is going to end, I'll have a place to work toward. Thanks for all your continued support! **

**Disclaimer: (**_**I will not sound redundant; I will not sound redundant**_**) It's…still not mine. **

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"I've got a bad feeling," Courfeyrac said as they made their way back to his house the next morning. They were passing the area where the barricade had been set up the previous night, although there was now barely any indication that it had ever been there.

"What did I tell you before you rushed off? _Nothing would come of it_," Enjolras stated.

"And, as _always, _you were right," Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. "But I think you've already rubbed enough salt in the wound."

Courfeyrac opened his door and they entered. "André? Pierre? Tristan?" He called.

"Good; you came," Joly stumbled into the hall, looking like he had not gotten much rest.

"How is he?"

"Alive," Joly replied with a tired smile. "He hasn't woken up this morning, but it looks like he'll be alright," he added.

"And your cold?"

"Cold? What co…oh! Gone," he shrugged.

" 'What cold,' he says," Courfeyrac snorted. "Sometimes, _mon ami_, you amaze me. Where's André?"

"Asleep. He stayed up for most of the night, so I told him he should get some rest," Joly shrugged.

"Ah. Well, I'm going to go wake him up and then we'll go out to find some breakfast," Courfeyrac said, heading into the bedroom.

"Well, since the host has disappeared, I suppose we'll have to invite ourselves in," Feuilly said, walking into the apartment. "Where is this man?"

"Oh! Through here," Joly led them into the parlour, where Stéphen, now awake, glanced up at them blearily.

"I heard the door," he mumbled.

"Yes, some more friends of ours," Bahorel informed him, getting up from his armchair and stretching.

"Oh. You must be Enjolras," Stéphen continued. "Tristan's told me about you, and I must say, after last night, and young though you are, you're far smarter than I."

"I wouldn't presume that," Enjolras waved the comment off.

"No; thinking about it now, it was extremely foolish. There was no possible way we could have won and yet I rushed in there, and God knows how many men we lost. I'm lucky your friends saw me as they rushed by or else I'd be a dead man," Stéphen admitted.

"Well, we can't do anything about it now," Bahorel returned.

"Come on, you can sleep later!" Courfeyrac all but pushed Combeferre out of his bedroom and into the living room.

"Oh, I want to thank you for helping me last night. You don't even know me, and you saved my life," Stéphen turned to Combeferre, who yawned and re-adjusted his glasses.

"No trouble," Combeferre assured him. "It's what I do. But François will not let me rest until I get him breakfast, so we'll be heading off," he waved a hand as he and Courfeyrac walked out the door.

"How do you feel, Stéphen?" Bahorel inquired.

"Not at all bad; considering," Stéphen responded. "He's rather good at what he does. I've had doctors who don't seem to know an arm from a leg," he said with a slight laugh. "I'm grateful, though."

"Well, I'm glad it worked out," Enjolras replied.

000

By the time the first snowstorm of the season hit Paris, some two weeks later, Enjolras could not have been happier to see the white flakes flying. The prolonged mild weather appeared only to serve the purpose of bringing more émeutes to a head, and it got to the point where he had seriously considered slamming the door in Bahorel's face, as that man did not take 'no' for an answer.

Stéphen was doing well, but was hardly likely to spring into an insurrection anytime soon; plus he had gone to visit his family home down by Nice to recuperate. So Bahorel persisted in pestering the _Amis. _

The night of the snowfall was also a meeting night, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac went to the _Musasin _early- to 'study'- although Courfeyrac had not done much of that. More to the point, he kept snatching Combeferre's philosophy tomes and poring over them, which made it somewhat hard for the surgeon.

"Heaven, André, with writing _this _small, I _know _why you need glasses," he commented. "Here; hand them over, because I can't see a darn thing."

Combeferre sighed, but did as he was asked; besides, the sight of François Courfeyrac in glasses was not one to be passed up.

As Courfeyrac began to read, the door banged open and Joly, Bossuet, and…Courfeyrac took off the glasses as if they were tricking his eyes.

No, she was real, he decided after a moment's scrutiny. And beautiful. He cleared his throat and stood, smoothing his coat down as he did so. "Ah, _ma belle chérie, _you must be Musichetta." Giving her his most winning smile, he executed a gallant bow and theatrically kissed her hand.

Of course, as it did to any normal woman, this display made her blush as she replied, "I am indeed. And _you _must be François Courfeyrac."

"Ah, you've heard of me, then, _mademoiselle?" _

"Been warned against you is more like it," she corrected. "You are indeed as devilishly charming as Pierre claimed, although he neglected to mention that you are devilishly handsome as well."

"Pierre has been worried that I would steal you from him," Courfeyrac replied. "And I completely agree with you about the handsome part."

"Well," Joly cleared his throat. "I just dropped by to say that 'Chetta and I are going out for supper, so I won't be able to make the meeting tonight."

"No big deal," Courfeyrac shrugged. "As long as she would not rather go for dinner with _me_," he raised an eyebrow.

"Well, it's…tempting," Musichetta twirled a curly strand of hair around her finger. "But…I couldn't do that to Pierre."

"Shame."

"Well," Joly said again, looking highly uncomfortable. "Let's be off, shall we, 'Chetta?"

"You're shameless," Combeferre informed Courfeyrac as they left.

"Oh, I know. But _you_, Eagle…how are you getting along with the two lovebirds?" Courfeyrac inquired.

'It's trying, sometimes, but I live with it," Bossuet shrugged.

"So, you still don't have feelings for her?"

"_No," _Bossuet sat down.

"You _do!" _

"_No!" _

"No what?" Feuilly walked in.

"Bossuet's in love with Pierre's mistress!" Courfeyrac exclaimed triumphantly.

"_No, _I am _not," _Bossuet muttered through clenched teeth. "Now, will you _shut up?" _

"_Are _you?" Jehan rushed to the table. "I'll know if you're lying," he continued. "I have an eye for recognizing the lovelorn. It's what makes a good poet."

"Oh, fine. _Maybe _a little, but how could I _not? _I'm around them practically _all the time_," he pointed out.

"Have you told Pierre?" Courfeyrac pressed.

"Oh, Jehan, how is the house situation?" Bossuet completely ignored Courfeyrac and instead addressed the poet.

"Well, my parents believed the letter. Father especially; he told me that he 'knew I was a smart boy and would come to my senses soon enough,' and that he hoped I 'never make such a glaring error in judgment again,'" Jehan quoted, drawing himself up to his full height and managing to look and sound uncannily like his father. "Ah, if he only knew the truth," he chuckled.

"I _told _you it was convincing," Feuilly reminded him. "You didn't think I was lying, did you?"

"Well…no. Remember, I can tell when somebody's lying," Jehan reminded him.

"Yes, but I am assuredly _not _lovelorn," Feuilly replied.

Fearing that the conversation was once again taking an unpleasant turn, Bossuet cleared his throat and pressed, "The house?"

"Oh! My parents are coming next weekend to help me start looking, so…"

"I'll disappear," Feuilly winked. "They won't see hide nor hair of me, I assure you."

"Jehan, is your mother pretty?" Courfeyrac cut in.

"Fairly. I look a lot like her, I'm told. If that helps," he shrugged.

"So, she's pretty, then," Courfeyrac smiled. "Any chance I could meet her?"

"I fear where this is going…" Combeferre groaned.

"_Oh!"_ Jehan's eyes widened. "Well, if you're thinking of it _that_ way, I'm afraid my father will have less tolerance for you than even Enjolras' did," Jehan warned him.

"I like a challenge," Courfeyrac replied. "And Bossuet, don't think we've forgotten about _you," _he added. "_You're _still going to admit everything."

Bossuet sighed, knowing how stubborn Courfeyrac got when he wanted information, and resigned himself to tell the truth.


	23. Chapter 23

**Hey, guys! Sorry for the long wait, but I've been going through a SEVERE case of the winter blues (maybe I've got SAD or something…)…but the point is, the last two weeks have been killing me, because I'm normally very positive and happy all the time, and I HATE feeling depressed…so I figured I'd better get a chapter typed up and posted. My imagination has gone with my mood, but it's coming back, so I can only hope that as January leaves, so does my bad mood. Hope (crosses fingers). **

**At any rate, thanks for all your continued support, and I hope to post a new chapter sooner than this one! **

**Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. **

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"He _made _you tell?" Joly had to smother his laughter. "As in, what? Held a gun to your head and threatened to shoot you if you didn't?"

"He may as well have," Bossuet sulked.

"Oh, my poor Eagle; whatever are we to do with you?" Joly sighed. "What say you, 'Chetta? What ought to be done?"

"You're asking me?" she laughed. "Technically, Pierre, _you're _the one who should decide his fate, since _you're _the one in the most danger of losing something," she winked.

"Darling, you would never leave me for him. He's bald and unlucky," Joly pointed out.

"And you're continually ill," she retorted. "So, it's all on me, is it? Hmm…Well," she finally sighed. "If I had _my _way, _both _of you would be my boyfriends," she winked. "But I suppose that's rather out of the question."

"I would never try and steal you away from Pierre, 'Chetta," Bossuet assured her. "After all, I've made it rather adamant that I feel nothing more than friendship for you."

"Although François would rather it be differently?"

"François de Courfeyrac lives to stir up trouble. I don't think he means it all intentionally, but it happens more often than not," Joly replied.

"Well, he _is _rather handsome," Musichetta admitted, giving an overly-emphatic sigh. "I can see why you were worried about him stealing me away from you."

"And?" Joly looked afraid.

"…And…if I want a one-night relationship; granted, it _would _be an enjoyable night; but if I want a one-night relationship, I may go to him, but that's _not _what I want. I want something that's going to last," she told them. "And I know that with you; both of you; I'll always have that."

"Wait 'til Courfeyrac hears this!" Bossuet laughed. "I don't think he's _ever _been turned down by a woman before."

"Hang on; I'm not turning him down," Musichetta protested. "I'm just…declining his offer. Although, from what you tell me of this Enjolras, shouldn't _he _be the one getting the women's attention?"

"Oh, he gets the attention, all right," Bossuet agreed. "It's just that, unlike Courfeyrac, Enjolras does not _want _that attention."

"Ah. Perhaps he is wise, then," Musichetta commented. "Has he ever had a mistress?"

"_Patria," _Joly replied.

"Ah," she said again, nodding. "Well, to each their own, I suppose."

"Indeed," Bossuet agreed. "But it is getting late, 'Chetta, and we should escort you home. Unless you'd rather stay…"

"And force you to sleep on the couch? That would be dreadfully rude of me. No, it's best if I go home," she said, picking up her coat and slipping it on. "Besides, the snow has stopped; it looks to be a lovely evening for a stroll. Wouldn't you gents agree?"

000

"So, now you have to tell me the truth," Joly said after they'd returned from escorting Musichetta home. "Was Courfeyrac only teasing, or was there some truth to what he was saying?"

"It…it's really not my place to say," Bossuet went to sit on a chair.

"I just want the truth," Joly fiddled with his cane as he looked out the window; it had started snowing lightly again, and the white flakes floated serenely by the window as he watched.

"I can't."

"Bossuet." Joly clipped the name short, but he didn't sound angry; just tired.

"Fine. I like her; I do. Since I met her, practically, but she's not _right _for me," Bossuet sighed.

"Be that as it may, she likes you as well. And she certainly has admitted that to me a number of times," Joly told him. "So, what are you afraid of? That I'd kick you out because of it?" he turned around and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Frankly, Eagle, I'd be more worried if you _didn't _get along."

"You're sure?" Bossuet glanced at the other man. "I mean, it doesn't bother you that…that I feel…"

"As I said, I count my blessings every day that a woman as beautiful and marvellous as she is would even dare consider being seen with me. She is so admirably flawless, and yet I have enough flaws for three men.

"No, my dear friend, I do not begrudge you anything; least of all this. There is no need to, as far as I am concerned," he concluded with a smiled.

"You're far too good to me," Bossuet sighed. "And _you, _talking of flaws; why, if you have enough for three men, I assuredly have enough for _double _that number!" he added.

"Hardly," Joly laughed. "But what are we to do with Musichetta?"

"As far as I'm concerned, nothing needs to change," Bossuet stood up. "She is your mistress; in public, she shall remain your mistress. What we do in our private lives is nobody's business but our own."

"Bossuet!" Joly looked aghast. "I think you're been spending too much time with Courfeyrac! Really!"

"Oh, lighten up, Pierre!" Bossuet smiled. "_You _need not be involved, if that is what is mortifying you. But only with your permission…and hers; as I said, she's _your _mistress."

"You're going to have to give me some time to think about this," Joly sighed good-naturedly. "But I should be getting to bed. We can talk about this more in the morning."

000

"He didn't!"

"He most certainly did."

"Oh, Heavens!" Musichetta tried to stifle her laughter. "I wish I could have seen your face after he suggested that! I'm sure it was priceless."

"I was mortified, to put it mildly. It was something François would have suggested."

"Stop it, Pierre. You know, all you're doing is making him sound even _more _appealing," Musichetta warned him.

"Really?" Joly looked rather sceptical. "Then you…you would not mind…"

"Not if you won't," she winked. "I get the idea that you're still getting used to the idea of sharing me?"

"It's not that; it's just…what if…"

"Yes, I care for him, Pierre, but I wouldn't choose him over you. Ever," Musichetta took his hand and gave him a reassuring smile.

"Don't let him hear that," Joly smiled back. "I think it might wound his pride a little."

"He'd understand," Musichetta assured him. "Now…what are the chances I'll get to see François again?"

000

"It's only the first of December, and already I feel like it's been snowing _forever!" _Courfeyrac came into the café, brushing snow off of his jacket and stamping his feet to get the snow and slush off of his boots.

"Stop complaining."

"Oh, is little Pierre jealous because his dear mistress has somewhat of an attraction to me?" Courfeyrac asked with a cheeky grin.

"It's _always _you."

"Relax. I have enough trouble as it is without trying to steal your 'Chetta," Courfeyrac assured him. "My parents and aged Grandmama are coming up for a visit, and I have to make sure all of you are sufficiently warned not to make any references to my mostly untrue past. I have no wish to see _Grand-mére _suffer a heart attack because of a careless comment."

"Well, don't worry about us. Worry about Bahorel," Bossuet said.

"And Grantaire," Joly added, "Because even if you warn him, chances are he won't remember once he gets enough absinthe into his system."

"Did somebody mention absinthe?" Grantaire lumbered over. "I'll have you know that in ancient times drink and religion went hand-in-hand," he said, obviously preparing to launch into a lengthy soliloquy. "Why, the theatre in ancient Greece was a highly religious place; people went to see a play as they would go to church, and the drama festivals were devoted to Dionysus, the God of Wine!"

"And debauchery," Joly muttered under his breath.

"If he starts spouting Aeschylus again, I'm going to go stick my head in a snow bank," Bossuet returned.

"Aeschylus? No, I admire Sophocles, because…"

"What are you rambling about, wine-cask?" Enjolras and Combeferre walked through the door.

"Ah, Enjolras, _you _appreciate the noble tradition of the Festival of Dionysus, do you not?"

"Consider for a moment whom you have all named me after, and that should give you your answer."

"What are you referring to?" Grantaire blinked.

"You call me Apollo; the god of music, healing, and the sun. You claim to honor Dionysus, who stands for everything that Apollo opposes. So, I ask you, what would you say my response to you would be?" Enjolras crossed his arms, not looking at Grantaire.

"Ah." Grantaire blinked again, backing up slightly and returning to his table, picking his bottle up and taking a long drink as he sat.

"Thank you," Bossuet turned to Enjolras. "Who knows _how _long he would have gone on if you hadn't cut in."

"Oh, I've learned to ignore him when he starts," Enjolras mentioned. "Besides, if you just make sure he has a bottle in his hand at all times, he'll eventually fall asleep."

"True enough. Or I could distract him; that works, too," Courfeyrac grinned. "But getting shut down by you seems to be the most effective way to shut him up."

"I'm not proud of that," Enjolras sighed.

"But it's useful."

"This was the reason I chose not to consider him a member of our society in the first place," Enjolras sat down. "No matter how hard we might try, we're never going to get along because we're far too different."

"You've never given him a real chance," Combeferre protested.

"Because he doesn't deserve one! He couldn't care less about our Republic; he wouldn't care if the entire world was engulfed in flames, so long as he still had a full bottle of wine in his hand!" Enjolras snorted.

"But Apollo…"

"No; he has a point," Courfeyrac laid a hand on Combeferre's arm to quiet him. "Would you honestly believe that if we went to build a barricade tomorrow, that he would come with us and fight?"

"I…" Combeferre heaved a sigh and also sat. "I don't know."

"He's a loose cannon. I doubt, if you asked him, that _he _would even know the answer to that," Courfeyrac added, leaning on his elbows on the back of Combeferre's chair.

"That's exactly what I'm referring to. We can't depend on him," Enjolras commented.

"Well, we shall have to tolerate him, all the same," Combeferre finally said. "He's not likely to be going anywhere, and it certainly isn't our place to ban him from a public café."

Enjolras let out a sound not unlike a 'hmph.' And Combeferre knew that, though it was hardly a 'yes,' it was the best that he was going to get.


	24. Chapter 24

**Wow, this chapter came out a LOT shorter than it originally looked…hmm…**

**So, I'm pretty much feeling better…plus I'm going to Florida in two weeks, so THAT'S going to make me feel better for sure! I just hope the weather cooperates and I don't get a depressed relapse or something, because it's horribly annoying. **

**I got the idea for this chapter from a few reviews that comment on how lots of the parents in **_**Amis **_**fics seem to be really mean and un-accepting of what the boys are doing, so I decided to put a new spin on the idea. Oh..and…Ack! I used a line from Harry Potter (more or less). But it worked! Really! **

**Anyway, enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Is this still necessary? It's…not mine. **

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"That will be them," Courfeyrac stood at a knock on the door. "No doubt they'll be pleased to see you, André. They always _did _like you."

He opened the door to greet the three people standing on the steps. "Why, hello! Fancy seeing you three here on this lovely winter day," he smiled gallantly.

"François! You look better than ever!" his mother greeted him. "I was worried what staying in Paris would do to you," she smiled while embracing her son.

"I would have been in trouble, _Maman, _but a dear old friend ran into me on the street and saved me from a horrible fate," Courfeyrac replied.

"He's overplaying the story, as usual," Combeferre came to the door. "No doubt he would have done perfectly fine by himself."

"André Combeferre?" Courfeyrac's mother looked shocked. "Is it truly you?"

"Indeed, ma'am. It's good to see you again," Combeferre responded.

"Why are you in Paris, André?" Courfeyrac's father cut in. "School?"

"Partly," Combeferre answered truthfully. "And partly because of a promise I made to a friend."

"François was rather angry that you did not explain where you were going," Courfeyrac's grandmother pushed forward. She was a short woman; shorter than Combeferre; and although she did not look like a woman who smiled much, she nonetheless had a normally pleasant disposition.

"I've forgiven him for that, Grandmama," Courfeyrac assured her. "It wasn't really his fault; we were away at the time. But come inside, already! It may be warm outside, but it's still December." He ushered them inside with a smile.

"Well, I see you have not become _too _slovenly…" his grandmother pottered around, inspecting the rooms.

"Come now, Grandmama! A man has to at least _appear _respectable if he wished to entertain women in his home!" Courfeyrac exclaimed with a smile.

"As long as you treat them nicely, or they shall never want to marry you!" his grandmother admonished. "Now, your grandfather: _he _was a real gentleman; you can be sure of that; else I would have never let him court me!" she said, continuing to inspect the place.

"Oh, André, dear," Courfeyrac's mother turned to him. "Your mother wrote me in a letter concerning your father. I'm sorry we could not make it to the funeral, but I sent your mother condolences, and I'm glad you're here today so I can say this in person. He was a good man," she said, looking a little afraid that she was dredging up old memories better left buried.

"Thank you," Combeferre nodded. "I appreciate that. It's been hard on my mother, of course, but…"

"But she has _me _to keep her spirits up," Courfeyrac winked.

"And how is _your _schooling, François?" his father asked. "Still keeping it up?"

"I'm still _going_," Courfeyrac responded.

"Well, I suppose I should be thankful for that," his father laughed. "You'll make a good lawyer, François."

"I should hope so. I pride myself on my obviously persuasive nature," Courfeyrac grinned.

"And your other friends? For you must have more; charming boy like yourself," his grandmother broke in. "Perhaps we could meet them?"

"Perhaps. Some of them."

"You're being evasive, dear. What's the matter?" his mother said.

"It's…just…" but Combeferre turned to the door as another knock sounded.

"Oh, some of your friends!" Courfeyrac's mother dashed to the door; pulling it open. "Hello, there!"

"G'morning, ma'am."

"Oh, thank _heaven!" _Courfeyrac gave a relieved sigh. "Feuilly, you rascal! You're early!"

"I know. But it was such a nice morning; I had to go for a walk," Feuilly shrugged. "You must be François' mother. I'm Sébastien Feuilly."

"And you're…"

"A Polish fan-maker."

"Quite blunt, I see," she blinked.

"Most people don't take kindly to my occupation or my heritage," Feuilly admitted, "So I thought I'd tell you all of it right away so you won't be rudely surprised later," he added.

"Well, I see nothing wrong with you. You seem very nice," she said.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," Feuilly respectfully tipped his cap.

"He's so polite, too," Courfeyrac's grandmother cut in. "_You've _never been that polite!" she turned to her grandson.

"I…uh…Feuilly, have you seen Enjolras?" he abruptly changed the subject.

"Not this morning," Feuilly glanced back out the door. "Oh, hang on. _Bonjour, _Apollo!"

"_Bonjour_," Enjolras replied, climbing the stairs. "Ah, you must be Francois' family," he inclined his head politely. "My name is Enjolras."

"Are you the son of _the _Enjolras?" his grandmother pushed forward. "I met him once. I didn't like him. You take after him?"

"_Madame, _if I did, your grandson would have stopped putting up with me long ago," Enjolras assured her, earning a smile from the elderly woman.

"I see that quite clearly, young man, for if you _were _your father's son, you would be reprimanding me for blaspheming the name of the noble and most ancient house of Enjolras, who put more stock in their name than in personality," she added, causing Enjolras to chuckle.

"Too right, _Madame_. I can see where Courfeyrac gets his wit from; although, if I may speak plain, his specialty appears to lie in being more obnoxious than witty," Enjolras lowered his voice.

"Apollo!" Courfeyrac sounded indignant.

"You _must _know my grandson well," his grandmother looked impressed. "Because that's about the most accurate description I've heard. François, are all of your friends like this? You may have better taste than I thought."

"Well, thank you. I think," Courfeyrac blinked. "Mayhap you can meet a few more of them…at some point."

"Are you taking law as well?" Courfeyrac's father asked Enjolras.

"At the moment," Enjolras responded. "André would have me take philosophy, I think, but I would never be a good philosopher. Philosophers have to be open to new ideas; new ways of going about things. I, unfortunately; once I pick my course; am unable to divert from it. My mind is too closed."

"You're too logical," Combeferre informed him.

"I agree," Courfeyrac said. "In which case, if you are the logic and Combeferre is the philosophy, what does that make me?"

"The court jester," Feuilly replied, an overly serious expression on his face.

"That's right! I…" Courfeyrac stopped. "_What _did you call me, Sébastien Feuilly?"

"It's true, François," Combeferre tried to stifle his laughter.

"You boys are causing me to have the most fun I've had in years! Why don't we come visit more often?" Courfeyrac's grandmother demanded.

"Hmph. This is all very amusing, but I believe I was going to take us all out to lunch. But if you'd rather laugh at me than eat…" Courfeyrac trailed off.

"No; food's better," Feuilly said quickly. "Though this _is _amusing."

"You'll never turn down a meal, will you?" Courfeyrac crossed his arms.

"That's because for the first sixteen years of my life I often did not know where my next meal was coming from," Feuilly answered truthfully, his hands fiddling with the edge of his scarf. Courfeyrac's grin died in an instant, and he looked down at the floor in shame.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine. It's easy to forget and I…I'd rather it be forgotten myself, sometimes," he admitted, smiling wanly before finding himself locked in an embrace courtesy of Courfeyrac. "François!"

"What? You looked like you needed a hug," Courfeyrac said softly.

"Well, I…yes," Feuilly cleared his throat and returned the embrace. "Thank you."

"Of course. Now, lunch?"

"Feuilly, is Prouvaire coming?" Combeferre inquired.

"I invited him, but you know Jehan…"

"Prouvaire. Wouldn't be the related to _Jean _Prouvaire, would he? I met him once, too. Pompous bigot strutted around like he owned everything," Courfeyrac's grandmother mentioned.

"He would be, but…"

"Hello?" Jehan poked his head through the door. "Oh, I was so worried I wouldn't make it in time! My parents all but shoved me into the new place and I was still busy unpacking…what?" he stopped as he realized everyone was staring at him.

"François, your friends are wonderful. I'm coming to visit more often!" Courfeyrac's grandmother was positively beaming.

"Well…good!" Courfeyrac grinned back. "Lunch?" He skipped out the door.


	25. Chapter 25

**Sorry for the long wait! I wanted to hold off because I probably won't be able to post for the next week or so due to my family being on holiday. I'll have my laptop along this time, (provided it gets through security!) so I might be able to check reviews, but I probably won't be posting. **

**And I apologize for the Christmas chapter (25, oddly enough…) but I **_**did **_**write it over Christmas! **

**And I **_**think **_**I'm okay on the time frame for the Christmas carols (that is, they were all written by 1820-ish), because I went through the hymnal at church checking dates and stuff. See? I do my research!**

**And **_**major news! **_**My parents are all about giving gifts on Valentines, because I have no 'significant other,' so they gave me one of those Department 56 lighted model things you see in stores around Christmas…and it's of Notre Dame. **_**Was very happy! **_

**That being said, thanks for the continued reviews and enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I need to think of a new way to say this…and it still isn't mine. **

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Is there any way to get him to shut up?" Bossuet groaned.

"Not once he starts," Combeferre was paging through a philosophy book. "Best just to ignore him and he'll stop."

"It would be easier to ignore him if he were _on tune_," Bossuet moaned. "Honestly! It's 'Joy to the World!' Can he…" Bossuet listened for a moment. "He doesn't even know the words!"

"François," Combeferre sighed and rolled his eyes.

"What?" Courfeyrac blinked.

"Your singing is annoying Bossuet," Combeferre continued.

"This should affect me _why?" _

"You know, François; you like singing Christmas carols so much…you should come with me to Mass tomorrow night," Jehan suggested.

"Mass? That would involve going to church," he scoffed. "And listening to preaching about my horribly dissolute life."

"But it's Christmas Eve!" Jehan protested. "The only sermon is on the Nativity story; there's a lot of singing, and…" he took a breath. "…it's at midnight."

"Midnight?" Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "Well, perhaps…oh, why not? As long as we all go…we can make a night of it!" he looked encouraged.

"Sébastien?" Jehan turned to the fan-maker, who was looking fairly unsure of himself. "What is it?"

"I…how can I go in good faith? I have no money to spare for alms," he looked ashamed.

"And that would stop you from going to church?" Jehan shook his head.

"I feel bad," Feuilly shrugged. "I don't…"

"You're coming if I am," Courfeyrac informed him. "Or are you just embarrassed about your singing voice?" he jibed.

"I can sing better than you. At least I know what 'pitch' is," Feuilly retorted. "Where are we headed, Jehan?"

"There's only one place I would wish to go to for Christmas Eve Mass," Jehan had a dreamy look in his eyes. "Notré Dame."

"Notré Dame?" Courfeyrac looked sceptical.

"It's such an example of classic Gothic architecture, plus the history of…"

"_Don't _tell me you believe those old tales about the fabled bell-ringer!"

"They're not fables!" Jehan looked aghast. "You'll see! We'll ask around…"

"Stories; that's all they are," Courfeyrac waved a hand. "But you're right; it pays seeing at least once."

"So, you'll come, then?" Jehan asked, looking hopeful.

"If Feuilly will," Courfeyrac pointed out.

"Don't put this on me!" Feuilly protested.

"Fine, then. Pierre, is your lovely mistress going to be joining us?" Courfeyrac turned to Joly. "From what I hear, she's _dying _to see me again," he winked.

"Afraid not, François," Joly shrugged, looking anything but apologetic. "You see, she has returned to Toulon to visit her family, so she will not be around for a couple of weeks."

"Pity. Sorry, Feuilly," he sighed. "It's on you."

"Well, I…alright. This once," Feuilly gave in. "How can I say no?"

"You can't," Courfeyrac replied. "Think Apollo will go for it?"

"If the rest of us do," Bossuet said. "And if he says no to you, get André to ask him."

"Why has nobody invited me?" This from Grantaire, who was seated in the corner looking morose.

"If you manage to stay sober, you can come along. I may not have a pristine record, but even I would not _dare _stoop as low as to be inebriated in a church," Courfeyrac proclaimed.

"Strong words," Grantaire stared at the table for a few moments. "Do you suppose that, if I _were _to come to Mass sober, as you suggest, that Apollo…_might_…think more of me?" he looked moderately hopeful.

"He may indeed," Courfeyrac nodded sagely. "However, the only way to know for sure is to try it and see."

"I just might." This almost seemed to be part of some internal monologue Grantaire was having with himself. "I just might."

000

"Mass?" Enjolras asked, looking thoughtful.

"Oh, come on, Apollo! Have some Christmas spirit!" Courfeyrac said, flailing his arms emphatically. "Besides, Grantaire might show up sober…if he shows up any other way, I will _personally _see to it that he does not enter the church," he stated.

"I had no idea you would take such a strong stance over something pertaining to religion," Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

"I may not be devoutly religious, but I would still prefer to end up in Heaven," Courfeyrac retorted.

"Well, I suppose that is admirable. And seeing Grantaire sober _would _be a sight not to be missed…well, what harm could it do?" Enjolras gave a shrug.

"Good," Courfeyrac looked happy. "See you tomorrow night, then!"

"I have to warn you," Combeferre spoke to Enjolras after Courfeyrac had gone. "He's going to sing loud, and he's going to sing badly."

"Well, fortunately, I do not think we can get thrown out of the church for merely being unable to sing," Enjolras pointed out. "Although I do not wish to be standing next to him at the service," he added with a grimace.

"I'm more or less used to it, unfortunately," Combeferre sighed. "His voice was not any better as a child. He's always loved the old carols, though…even if he doesn't know the words.

Enjolras shook his head and went to the window, staring out at the lightly falling snow; illuminated by the street lamps and reflecting gently off of the river; the setting completely a vision of peace.

000

"Ah," Jehan sighed, breathing in the crisp night air. "That was lovely."

"What? The service, or the church?" Bahorel teased. "You were too busy sight-seeing to even listen to the priest."

"I think François liked it," Feuilly mentioned. "He hasn't said a single word since we got out."

"François?" Combeferre tapped the other man on the shoulder. "Are you in there?"

"I think I may have to do that every year," Courfeyrac blinked. "That…I _actually _enjoyed that."

"Will wonders never cease? François Courfeyrac _enjoyed _going to church," Bossuet looked amazed.

"It was quite surprising to me, as well," Courfeyrac admitted. "I guess it was…I never thought I would like going to church."

"I told you you'd like it!" Jehan was beaming. "I told you!"

"Alright," Courfeyrac glowered at the poet. "But I didn't see any hunchbacked bell-ringer."

"Fair enough," Jehan shrugged. "We can make that a project for next year. I assume you'll want to come back next year?"

"Next year…" Enjolras stopped, glancing at the river. "Who knows if there shall _be _a next year? When the time comes; when the people rise up, who knows what changes it will bring? Who knows if we shall even come out of it unscathed?" he mused, his hair gleaming golden under the thin moonlight and street-lamps, and his sapphire eyes reflecting the dark-blue depths of the Seine.

"Come on, Apollo. Can we _not _talk about this on Christmas?" Grantaire was rather ill-humoured; presumably a side-effect of his rare sobriety.

"We know it could happen any day," Feuilly cleared his throat, his eyes resting on the dark façade of the cathedral across the river. "We do; but what use is there in dwelling on it? It will come when it comes; no use getting anxious over it before it does," he added, smiling wistfully.

"He's right, Apollo. It's not like we can control it…and besides, it's Christmas!" Courfeyrac grinned. "Peace on earth and all that!"

"If there's one day of the year when you can forget about all of your worries, why not make it Christmas?" Jehan added, stepping to the stone wall that overlooked the river. He hopped up onto it and pulled his flute out of his coat, quietly beginning to play 'Silent Night;' the low notes hanging softly in the night air.

Enjolras heaved a sigh as he glanced sideways at the poet; looking reflective as he leant back against the low wall. "Peace on earth, you say?" he mused softly. "But then, is that not what we are fighting for? Peace?"

"Apollo, don't," Combeferre broke in. Enjolras turned, and he raised an eyebrow as he beheld the rest of the _Amis, _who were regarding him with sombre expressions that held, it could be said, a hint of disappointment.

"What? What do you expect me to do? What if the revolution were to come tomorrow?" his eyes turned icy.

"So it comes tomorrow," Feuilly shrugged. "We'll face it then. But right now, don't you think…even for one night…" he paused.

There was silence for a few moments; the only noise came from one of the few carriages still running at that late hour, and even the sound of the horse's hooves was muffled by the fresh snow lining the road.

"I can't," Enjolras sighed. "I would like to, of course, but my conscience will not allow it of me. After all, Christmas is also supposed to be a time to spend with family, and my family barely wishes to speak to me."

"You're not the only one," Bossuet pointed out. "At least your parents are alive. What about Feuilly and myself? We don't even _have _families to go home to."

"I realize that, but…"

"And what are we?" Courfeyrac crossed his arms. "Do we mean nothing to you? I had thought that was the whole point of our group: so we could form a brotherhood."

"He's right, Apollo," Combeferre smiled. "Relatives or not, we _are _brothers. All of us."

"I…thank you," Enjolras shook his head. "But that doesn't stop me from…"

"Five minutes. Can you do five minutes?" Courfeyrac asked.

Enjolras glanced back at all of them, eventually shaking his head again ruefully and staring up at the sky; a few breaks in the light clouds showed bright stars shining through. He smiled, then, and turned around once more. "Alright. Five minutes."

Courfeyrac looked pleased with himself and, as he tried to conduct Jehan in an impromptu version of 'O Holy Night,' Enjolras tried to forget everything weighing on his mind.

If only for five minutes.


	26. Chapter 26

**Ah, it's been like a LONG TIME since I updated! Apologies! Florida was fun…I actually managed to do some writing, but my 'free' internet connexion from the hotel turned into 'it doesn't work, so you have to pay.' Not Useful At All. In any case, here's Chapter Twenty-Six…and as this story is finished (Hooray! It only took…eight months!) I now know what happens up until the ending. Oh, and blame Courfeyrac's girlfriend's name on the fact that we're doing **_**Dangerous Liaisons **_**in College. That's all I have to say about that. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own **_**Les Miserables, **_**and Èmilie's character was created by Pierre Chaderlos de Laclos (gosh, I hope I spelled that right!) and probably belongs partially to Christopher Hampton, who wrote the play. So she's not mine, either. **

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

"Alright. Ready?"

At Feuilly's encouraging nod, Jehan turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, revealing a rather modestly decorated living room, and backing on to another door which no doubt led to the sleeping quarters. "Well?" Feuilly asked.

"It's…" Jehan scratched his chin. "Small," he finally conceded, glancing about.

Feuilly tried to smother his laughter and ended up turning it into a rather convincing cough.

"What? Isn't it?" Jehan pressed.

"Jehan…I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'm going to be completely honest," he cleared his throat. "Your old place would have housed about fifteen people without them ever being cramped in. This place…" he glanced around, "could probably hold five. So, no. I would not say it is 'small,' exactly."

"…Oh…" Jehan looked embarrassed. "Sorry. Sometimes I forget that…but never mind," he shook his head. "My parents won't allow anyone to live with me."

"Of course not." Feuilly didn't find that little demand hard to imagine, knowing what he did about the elder Jean Prouvaire. "Have they given you a reason why they would buy you a new place so spacious and then give you rules like that?"

"Mostly because they fear I would merely allow them to live here without ever asking them to pay for anything, and with my father…"

"Yes, I'm fairly sure he would not appreciate that. Why? Would you _want _someone to move in with you?" Feuilly asked suspiciously.

"Well, you…"

"_No, _Jehan." Feuilly shook his head. "I have a place to live; and I'm perfectly content there. Besides, I have no wish to face your father when he unexpectedly shows up and finds me not contributing anything." He walked further into the house, opening up the door that led to the bedroom and glancing inside. "Besides, with only one bed, your parents have made fairly sure that nobody will be moving in with you anytime soon."

"Well, true enough," Jehan glanced in as well. "It's nice enough, I suppose," he finally conceded with a smile. "I can live with it. I'll need to go shopping for a new writing desk, though; my father hardly approves of my poetry…I'm sure he neglected it on purpose," he mused.

"And you want me to come help you pick out a proper desk, is that it?" Feuilly smiled.

"Actually, I had not even considered it," Jehan returned the smile. "But, if you would not mind…"

"Of course not. Provided there's a cup of coffee at the end, that is." Feuilly winked.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," Jehan nodded.

000

"So? Who is she?"

"Who's who?" Courfeyrac feigned innocence.

"François, I _know _you're only truly happy like this when you've found a new mistress, and you seem even happier than usual. So, who is she?" Combeferre asked again.

"Ah, André…her name is Èmilie, and she is exquisite. Dark hair; rich, brown eyes; slim waist; small hands; pale complexion…and rather well-endowed, if you know what I mean," he winked.

Combeferre groaned, but Enjolras looked perplexed until Courfeyrac gestured to his chest, after which he only looked disgusted.

"Really, François, is that _all _you can look at?" Bossuet shook his head.

"No; not all. She has quite a decent head on her shoulders, too. Her wit could easily match mine."

"Oh, you'll make a perfect couple," Combeferre sighed. "Nobody else will be able to stand being around you, but the two of _you _will be happy."

"Come on, André," Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. "You can't make any such negative judgments about her until you've met her."

"Perhaps not," Bossuet agreed.

"However, we are free to pass whatever judgment we see fit regarding _you, _seeing as how we _have _met you," Enjolras added.

"You're all so cruel to me," Courfeyrac looked offended. "But look: I'm going to bring her here right now so you can see her for yourselves," he proclaimed, standing up and rushing out of the café.

"Five francs says she takes one look at Enjolras and forgets François ever existed," Bossuet said.

"No," Combeferre told him.

"Why not?"

"Two reasons: I'd lose that bet, and you're betting Pierre's money, which I doubt he'd appreciate," was the reply.

"Oh, Pierre wouldn't mind," Bossuet waved the concern off.

"Yes, Pierre _would _mind. He won't say anything to you for fear of offending you, but just the other day in class he mentioned that between school, Musichetta, and you, he wonders how he'll have enough to pay the rent," Combeferre said, putting down his pen and sighing. "I offered to help him out if he needed it, but he said that it's his own problem and that he should get out of it himself. I just thought you should know, because he'd run himself into the _ground _for you without you ever knowing a thing."

Bossuet looked astonished at the revelation, and astonishment soon turned to guilt on his features. "I…I didn't realize that he…"

"Don't let him know that I told you, though," Combeferre said. "He wouldn't appreciate it."

"I won't," Bossuet shook his head. "I'll…I'll find some money…somehow. Even if I have to go ask distant relations in Meaux."

"You have distant relations in Meaux?" Enjolras asked. "I thought your parents were no longer alive."

"Well, they aren't, but most of the rest of my family lives nearby. I don't know them all that well, but I have some cousins that live in the country out there. Maybe it would not be a bad idea to take a trip; give Pierre and Musichetta some time alone…without me interfering," he fiddled with his cravat for a time as if he were waiting for some type of approval.

"I see no reason why you shouldn't," Enjolras shrugged. "And besides, it is hardly my place to tell you what action to take. I only wish that you did not have to return in winter; I've no doubt the country would be beautiful in the springtime."

"It is," Bossuet agreed. "But if Pierre needs money as badly as you say, André, I should probably make plans to leave as soon as possible."

"What excuse are you going to give Joly?" Combeferre asked. "You obviously cannot tell him your real reason for going; he would never allow it," he pointed out.

"I'll have to think about that. He knows me too well to believe _any_thing I say, so I had better make it convincing," Bossuet mused.

"Just tell him the truth: that you're going to visit family. There isn't much he can say to that. And the truth shouldn't cause him to be suspicious of anything," Combeferre suggested.

"He's going to be suspicious of _anything _I tell him! I _never _talk about my distant relations," Bossuet groaned.

"Look," Enjolras said. "In all honesty, you should not have to explain any of your reasons to him, because he has no say in what decisions you make. By all means, tell him you're going to Meaux; because otherwise he will tear the city apart like the _last _time you disappeared; but he has no right to stop you," he finished.

"You know what, you're right. He has no right to try and stop me from making my own decisions," Bossuet realized. "And this is partly my fault, too, because I've been spending his money, so it's about time I made it right!" He headed for the door, but his exit was made somewhat less dramatic by the fact that he tripped rather ungracefully over the doorframe on his way out. Enjolras grimaced and glanced at Combeferre, who smiled in return.

Courfeyrac sauntered in a few moments later, a woman on his arm. She had a mass of black hair, accentuated makeup, and a rather low-cut red dress. "Drat, did Bossuet run off already?" At the other two's nods, he shrugged. "Oh, well. At least I can introduce Èmilie to the two of you. Èmilie, darling, these are my friends André Combeferre and Apollo Enjolras."

"Apollo?" the girl blinked. "Really? Well, my…aren't _you _attractive?" she sat down in his lap, leaning close to him and letting her slender fingers trail through his golden hair. Enjolras looked about ready to faint and his eyes widened, but she seemed not to notice; or, if she did, chose to ignore it.

"Èmilie, please," Courfeyrac smiled at her. "Enjolras _hardly _finds _that _sort of attention pleasant."

"Oh," she pouted. "Well, give me a chance, François. Perhaps I can change his mind," she smiled coyly.

"Really, Èmilie, my dear," Courfeyrac continued. "I would not have brought you here if I knew you only wished to traumatize my young friend."

"Oh. Pity," she sighed and stood up. "Besides, _Apollo_," she winked. "We have a standing engagement, and I _won't _be stood up again. I shall see you tonight, François," she smiled at him before leaving.

"Of course, m'lady," Courfeyrac assured her with a gallant bow as she exited.

Enjolras seemed to come back to himself as he said, "François?"

"Yes?"

"There's…there's something you should know about Èmilie."


	27. Chapter 27

**Update time! Only…let me see…three chapters after this one, so we're coming to the end of the saga! And after some careful reflection regarding this story, I've decided that it's about the equivalent to **_**Seinfeld**_**. It's about nothing. Seriously, my plot died after about Chapter Eleven, but it's actually a lot of fun to write this way because you can explore characters that are more realistic. **

**Oh, and as to everyone who was guessing about Èmilie, she **_**does **_**have the same profession as the character in DL who shares her name, so if you know what that is, you'll have guessed. And if not, prepare to find out! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: This is the…twenty-seventh time I've said it. And it still isn't mine. **

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"What? And why did you freeze up like that? Normally women don't affect you at all," Courfeyrac looked confused.

"That's exactly _why, _though," Enjolras stood, shaking his head. "She…she…what did you say she did?"

"She…sings at the Opera," Courfeyrac shrugged.

"Perhaps…but, for Heaven's sake, François, _don't_ tell me you haven't suspected! She's a courtesan!" Enjolras exclaimed.

"A _what?_" Courfeyrac laughed, looking incredulous. "No; no she's not!" He rapidly shook his head. "Why would you even say that?"

"Because…" Enjolras stood and started pacing. "The day I toured Jehan around, I took him down to the docks, and we were approached by two women. I gave the one some money and told her that perhaps…sometime…I would come back and 'get my money's worth,' as it were."

"So _that's _why she mentioned a previous engagement!" Combeferre blinked. "I was wondering."

"That's…that's…preposterous!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "I would…she…you're _certain?" _he grabbed Enjolras by the shoulders and spun him around, staring into his sapphire eyes.

"François, do you believe that I would lie to you?" Enjolras asked, resisting the urge to push the other man away from him.

"No, I…but I really _like _her! And I've never paid her for…I…she…_lied _to me?" Courfeyrac looked like he wanted nothing more than for Enjolras to lie to _him_.

"It would appear that way."

"But…but…"

"Look, François," Enjolras turned his head so he was not facing the other man. "If I were somebody else, I may not tell you the truth, but you will only be hurt more by _not _accepting it and _not _realizing what she is, in fact, using you for," he finished.

"But…"

"François, we would not lie to you about something of this nature. As your friends, the last thing we would ever want to see is you getting hurt. I know you care very much about her, but you deserve more," Combeferre put in.

"I…" Courfeyrac sighed. "You're right; both of you. And if it weren't for you and your honesty, who knows what _could _have ended up happening? And I never in my wildest dreams could have imagined that _you_, Apollo, would warn me off of a woman because you knew her to be a courtesan!" he started to laugh.

"Granted, it might be a _little _humorous, but I don't see…"

"Actually, it's _very _humorous," Courfeyrac countered. "But I guess I owe you some thanks."

"As I said, it would only make me feel guiltier if I had lied to you," Enjolras repeated. "Now, you could truly show your thanks if you would be so kind as to let go of me."

Courfeyrac seemed to realize he was still holding the other man's shoulders in a death grip. "Oh. Sorry." He hesitated a moment before giving Enjolras a quick embrace and then hastily stepping back. Enjolras fixed him with an unreadable gaze, but Courfeyrac considered the lack of a sharp retort to be a good sign. "I guess I shall have to tell her tonight."

"François, you'll find someone," Enjolras assured him. "Someone who deserves you."

"You will," Combeferre nodded in agreement.

"I know. Besides, we _all _know that I deserve the best," Courfeyrac smiled his usual cocky grin before waving and walking out the door.

000

"Pierre, I have to go," Bossuet blurted out as he burst through the door.

"What? Why? I thought we'd been over this," Joly glanced at his friend.

"No, I don't mean…I don't mean that I have to stop living here; I just…want to go see my family. In Meaux," he clarified.

"Your family in Meaux?" Joly looked sceptical. "I thought you had nothing to do with your family in Meaux."

"Well, I…" All of Bossuet's carefully concocted excuses flew out the window as he beheld the perplexed and somewhat hurt look on his closest friend's face. However, he knew that Joly would never let him go if he revealed his true feelings…unless he managed to escape before Joly _could _react. Taking a deep breath, he blurted," I heard you need some money so I'm going to get you some; okay? Goodbye!" he turned around and ran out the door with the intent of finding a carriage as soon as possible, but as soon as he hit the street he realized that his well-formulated plan had a tragic flaw: he had no money to rent a fiacre. He turned back to the house to see Joly standing on the steps, leaning on his cane and wearing a knowing smile on his face.

"Forgetting something?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

"I…"

"Really, Eagle; you have the _worst _luck," Joly started to laugh. "Look," he forced out, "I appreciated what you're trying to do, and the truth is…I could dearly use some help financially," he admitted.

"But…"

"I can understand. André told you not to tell me that he told you about the money," Joly said.

Bossuet looked like he was trying to wrap his mind around that statement, so Joly merely shook his head and tossed the other man a small bag of money. "There. That's the last loan I'll give you," he added with a wink.

Bossuet smiled. "Thank you, Pierre. I promise I'll get you some money!"

"You had better keep that promise," Joly called. Watching his friend trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab from the sidewalk, he added to himself, _Really; it's like having _two _mistresses! _

000

"And he's _truly _going to break it off?" Feuilly looked both sceptical and amazed at the comment as the tale was related to him. "I'm sorry; it's just that François…"

"I know why you'd feel that way," Combeferre said with a smile, "but I believe that he is truly inclined to do as we suggest on this point because, first of all, it came from Enjolras, and second…because…"

"It came from Enjolras," Feuilly supplied, laughing. "I could see how that could alter a person's decision."

"Stop," Enjolras told him. "It was pure luck. And truthfully, when I told that woman that we might meet again someday, I wasn't being hopeful about it," he said with a look at Jehan.

"I…guessed that. After." Jehan admitted with a sheepish grin. "At the time I was a tad overwhelmed, if you wish to know the truth."

"That does not surprise me, seeing as how I practically had to drag you away by the arm," Enjolras recollected.

"That's true enough. I suppose what I had been _told _about Paris did not _nearly _compare to the truth," Jehan surmised, glancing at the tabletop and running his finger along one of the grooves in the wood. "As I've no doubt said, despite the fact that my father probably saw the worst of the city growing up, he neglected to mention any of these things to me," he added. "Although, after seeing this Èmilie and seeing her…_tactics_…I could see why François would find her attractive."

"François will find _any _woman who pays him interest attractive; and even some of the ones who _won't _deign to give him the time of day," Combeferre laughed, pushing his glasses farther up his nose.

"And Bossuet? You truly think he can slip away from Pierre without him noticing?" Feuilly brought up the new subject, looking less than convinced again.

"No," Combeferre admitted bluntly. "But, saying that, I don't think Pierre will stop him even if he gets the truth out of him."

"He's that short of money?"

"He's providing for three people. Not that he _has _to do as much as he does for Musichetta, but he feels that he should. He would never admit it, though. He only told me that he was a little low when it came to finances, but I'm sure it was a lot worse than he was letting on," Combeferre explained.

"Pierre _would _probably do something like that; true enough," Feuilly nodded thoughtfully. "But, if you want the truth, I don't have much faith in Bossuet being able to hide anything. Pierre can read him too well."

"That's certainly accurate," Enjolras agreed. "But I've no doubt they will work it out, one way or the other. Their relationship seems to be one where they never truly get angry with each other. In fact, it's rather admirable," he concluded.

"It's a healthy thing to have in a relationship," Feuilly nodded.

"I know it must be, for I felt truly miserable when I was angry with you, Sébastien," Jehan mentioned, smiling somewhat guiltily. "Have I..."

"Yes. Several times," Feuilly assured him. "So there's no need to repeat it again."

"Ah. Of course," Jehan leant back in his chair. "How long do you think François shall take in breaking the news to Èmilie?" he directed this to Combeferre.

"If I know him, he will want to get it over with as soon as possible…before he loses his nerve," Combeferre reasoned. "No matter how much he feels that he's making the right choice, I fear he's easily swayed."

"But he can do it?"

"Of course," Combeferre smiled.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter One

**High time for an update. And sorry about the prolonged wait, but now that our run of DL is FINALLY done (And it came together, wonder of wonders…although the unofficial cast party was kind of interesting…) I can write more! Wait…I have three essays due this week and finals for the next three. Scratch that. But I'll try to get the rest of this story posted (and I'm pushing for 100 reviews, because that would make me INCREDIBLY happy!) But then I'm in the process of moving, so my life is kind of…mehh…at the moment. We'll see what we can do. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: It…still isn't mine. Nope. **

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Courfeyrac walked away from Èmilie's place and breathed a huge sigh of relief; he felt as if a giant weight had been lifted off of his chest.

Truth be told, he had always thought there was something…amiss about his current mistress; but, she had seemed to genuinely care about him, and that was one of the things that he looked for in a woman.

But Enjolras was not the type to lie; and Combeferre would never persuade him to do anything that would eventually make him unhappy, so in his heart he felt as if he had done the right thing.

There was a renewed bounce to his step as he made his way to Enjolras'; he whistled as he wandered along.

"Francois!" he was hailed as he meandered down the boulevard and turned to wave at Bahorel, who was leaning on the railing and staring at the river. He walked over to join the other man. "You seem happy."

"Oh, I am. And, believe it or not, I'm happy because I've just broken it off with a woman," Courfeyrac replied with a sideways grin at the other man.

Bahorel raised an eyebrow in an appraising manner. "I never thought I would hear those words coming from your mouth, François. But, I can't say that it's a bad thing."

"You've experienced it, then?"

"I've experienced a lot," Bahorel assured him. "And yes, sometimes a failed romance can actually shed some new light on your perspective of love," he said, smiling knowingly as he looked at the river.

"Well, at least I can talk to you about these things. None of the others have any experience with love," Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps they know something we don't," Bahorel said in a mock-serious tone, a small smile gracing his lips.

"Or perhaps we know something _they _don't," Courfeyrac retorted playfully. "What about that?"

"Perhaps," Bahorel thoughtfully tapped his chin as he scrubbed a hand through his russet hair. "But I suppose…"

"Evening, gents!" They turned to find Grantaire lumbering toward them. "How are the two of you?"

"What? No bottle?" Bahorel grinned at him.

"Not tonight. Or, rather, not _yet_," Grantaire returned after a thoughtful pause. "But I thought you all would be immersed in some top-secret meeting that the great Apollo would conveniently 'forget' to invite me to."

"Well, we might yet," Bahorel nodded. "And, if we do, I'll be sure to invite you with or without the great Apollo's permission."

"Agreed," Courfeyrac nodded, smiling at Grantaire. "After all, André's pretty much included you in our little fraternity, and _I've _pretty much learned not to contradict André; he may not sulk the way Enjolras does when he's displeased about something, but he'll make you feel _just _as guilty…using only words," he added. "He's always been like that, I suppose. Even as children, I would get out of any tough situation by using my undeniable charm…and maybe a few half-truths…but André always just gave the entire truth and nobody ever questioned what he said."

"But telling the truth was…what? Too much work?" Bahorel grinned.

"Of course!" Courfeyrac nodded sagely. "Telling the truth is _always _harder than making up a falsehood."

"Tell that to Enjolras," Grantaire sounded tired as he slumped over the rail. "I don't think he even knows what a lie _is_."

"Oh, I've heard some things…he can mix words with the best of them. However, the difference is that nobody believes him capable of lying, so they automatically think it's the truth…or they're too busy looking at him to truly listen," Courfeyrac mused.

"Well, either could be possible," Bahorel admitted with a pointed shrug. "I suppose if we're organizing an impromptu meeting, though, we should probably get to it," he let go of the railing and stood, stretching his back. "Coming, gents?"

"Can we stop on the way to get a drink?" Grantaire queried, trying his best to look innocent but failing rather horribly.

"_Mon Dieu_," Courfeyrac gasped in feigned horror. "Can you hear yourself? Remember what I told you before: brink drink into the home of a god and I will _personally _remove it _and _you," he cautioned.

"Apollo's not a _real _god," Grantaire replied. "And besides, I'll finish it by the time I get there. Oh…but I suppose you have your moral qualms about being _drunk _in the house of a god, too, don't you?" he looked thoughtful.

"I'm sure I he can make an exception this once," Bahorel raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac.

"You're not allowed to take his side!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, huffing in obvious annoyance. "What am I supposed to say now? I'm outvoted!" he continued strolling for a few yards before turning on his heel and facing the two older men again. "But…I suppose an exception _could _be made. I could use a drink, as well," he admitted finally. "If Richard here can buy me a drink, perhaps I can turn a blind eye to your less-than-sober-ness."

"Well, thank you," Grantaire beamed. "I suppose I could dig into my dwindling coffer and come up with enough money to procure a drink of sorts for you."

"And tell me, Grantaire, whose fault is it that you do not have a job?" Bahorel asked.

"Well, it would be easier if I had parents who would be will to send me three thousand francs a year in order to encourage a highly unprofitable university career," Grantaire said mildly, although the barb was obvious. It wasn't lost on Bahorel, either, and he rolled his eyes and shook his head with a sigh, jamming his hands in his pockets.

"One has to experiment!" Bahorel protested. "How am I supposed to know where my life will take me if I can't figure out what I like to do?"

"I'm not blaming you for it," Grantaire told him. "I'm just commenting. If I had the money to do that, I would very probably do the same thing."

Bahorel looked somewhat pacified as they continued on in search of a drink.

000

"You just _had _to bring him, didn't you?" Enjolras looked worn out as he addressed the question to Courfeyrac.

"It wasn't me! Tristan invited him!" Courfeyrac protested. "I told him not to; I _even _told him not to drink before, but they ganged up on me and I had to agree!"

"And you had to agree to get a drink with them, too?" Combeferre enquired mildly. "Somehow I thought your willpower was greater than that."

"I had just broken off all engagements with a woman I cared deeply for," he said petulantly. "Can you even _begin _to fathom how difficult that was for me? You're all lucky I only had _one _drink; and, with Grantaire around, _that _was what took the _real _willpower!" he looked disgruntled and crossed his arms, almost seeming as if he expected to be rewarded for it.

"And you think that deserves praise?" Feuilly looked highly amused.

"Well, what would _you _do in my case, dear Sébastien?" Courfeyrac countered.

"I've never been in that situation, _dear _François," Feuilly retorted. "And even if I was, I don't think I'd turn to drinking…I couldn't afford it, for one thing, plus I've never really seen the appeal," he added.

"Well, fine. To each his own, I suppose," Courfeyrac glared at the room as a whole.

"Don't get all flustered," Enjolras scolded. "I'm actually rather surprised that you went through with my advice regarding that woman, but…I am quite glad you did," he admitted.

"Well, thank you for the compliment," Courfeyrac sounded unimpressed. "I'm pleased you think so highly of me."

"Don't be facetious, François."

"Big words, Feuilly! Warning bells ringing!" Courfeyrac said.

"Look, can't we discuss this tomorrow?" Combeferre finally broke in. "François, you're a horrible drunk as it is, and it doesn't improve your mood any. So call a truce and figure it out in the morning," he suggested.

"I…okay. Fine. Truce?" Courfeyrac glanced at Enjolras.

Enjolras looked somewhat confused about the whole situation, but he finally nodded. "Truce."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter One

**No, there's really no excuse for the wait. But I'm finally finished moving, so hopefully the next chapter (the last one!) will be up before the weekend. Because I'm going away next week for my birthday, and even though I'll have a computer, there's no guarantee that I'll have Internet! **

**Thank you once again to everyone who's stuck with this story, and I hope you enjoy this chap! (My mom named the dog, by the way. You can tell what our topic of conversation was!)**

**Disclaimer: It still doesn't belong to me. **

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"So, we're agreed not to tell my parents?"

"There's no way they'll hear it from me, but what if they show up unexpectedly?" Feuilly countered.

"They won't. They never come without giving due warning," Jehan said. "One thing about them that is generally a good thing."

"And if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

"You're sure?"

"Of course. Look, Sébastien…if they _do _come to visit in the next two weeks, can I count on you to look after…"

"No problem," Feuilly assured him. "Tell me again why you're taking care of…"

"A friend of mine from the University," Jehan explained. "He and his family are going out of town for a couple of weeks, and he needs somebody to take care of Remus."

"Remus?" Feuilly looked sceptical.

"We're literature students," Jehan shrugged. "And he's always been interested in the study of ancient Rome, so I suppose it's not all that surprising."

Remus, for his part, was happily walking along; stopping only briefly to sniff an early spring flower that was sprouting from between a crack in the pavement. After his investigation of said flower, he trotted happily back to Jehan and Feuilly, barking all the way.

"Well, he's a rather handsome dog, I suppose," Feuilly scratched his head. Most of the dogs he had seen were half-starved, flea-bitten curs that roamed the streets. Remus was a rather nondescript brown dog; one ear drooped over slightly and his tongue hung out of his mouth when he ran. Not exactly the type of dog a wealthy family would be proud to show off, but he seemed to have a nice disposition, at least.

They arrived at Jehan's doorstep and Jehan held up a hand to halt them. "My landlady doesn't really approve of pets, so we'll have to sneak him in somehow."

"And what happens if he starts to bark?"

"We'll worry about that when it happens."

"Jehan, what about when he has to relieve himself? How are you going to keep letting him out without someone noticing?" Feuilly pressed, shaking his head slightly but really not all that surprised that the poet hadn't thought this through very carefully. Jehan's heart was in the right place, but sometimes it got in the way of his common sense.

"I…maybe this wasn't such a great idea," Jehan visibly deflated. "I'm…what do I do now?'

"Would…would you like me to take care of him for you?" Feuilly offered. "I mean, as long as the money comes in, my landlord could care less what else goes on," he admitted, patting Remus' head. "Besides…and no offence to your friend…but Remus hardly looks like a dog that would belong to a noble. I never had a dog, myself, but I knew a lot of other children who did. I suppose they used them for protection, but I just thought of it as another mouth to feed. Oh…although I suppose my lot in life hasn't improved much. I couldn't afford to keep a dog, even now," he finally admitted.

"Oh, I'll pay for everything!" Jehan promised. "I just can't let him stay here. His food and everything will be taken care of. You're sure you can look after him for me?"

Feuilly nodded. "_Yes, _Jehan. I've already said so. But I should get going; take him home."

"It'll only be for a couple of weeks," Jehan reassured him. "I couldn't be more grateful," he added.

Feuilly waved and set off; Remus trotting happily along behind. Along the way to his home, met Joly and Bossuet coming in the other direction.

"_Bonjour, _Feuilly!" Bossuet waved. "Who's your friend."

"Oh," Feuilly smiled. "This is Remus."

"Do you…how long have you had him?" Joly was trying hard not to get too close, although Remus ran right up to him to investigate. "He's…I'm…ah...ah…ah_choo! _Allergic," he finished with a sniffle.

"Sorry about that," Feuilly apologized. "And as for your question, I've had him for about ten minutes. He belongs to a friend of Jehan, but Jehan can't take care of him because his landlady won't allow it, so…"

"He's getting you to do it for him," Bossuet concluded. "Is there anything you _won't _do for that boy? Taking a bullet for him, running into a burning building to save his flute, and now looking after a dog because he didn't think it through before making a promise?"

Feuilly merely shrugged, realizing that he had never really thought about that before…although it _was _true. For some reason or other, Jehan was always in need of help and he was always there to give it, even if it meant putting himself in danger to do it.

"I don't mind," he finally admitted. "It's not like it's a horrible inconvenience to me."

"But what if it _becomes _inconvenient?" Joly asked, trying to keep Remus; who seemed to have taken a liking to him; from jumping up again.

"Pierre, I'm helpful; not stupid," Feuilly informed him. "Oh, by the way, how did visiting Meaux go?"

"Fine," Bossuet nodded. "Seems my cousins weren't quite as disdainful of me as I had thought. I managed to get enough money so that Pierre's not having to spend every dime of _his_.

"But think about what I said," he shrugged and waved as he and Joly strode away.

Feuilly waved back and tried to appear nonchalant, but in truth…he _was _thinking about it.

000

"What's wrong, Feuilly? And don't say 'nothing,' because it isn't," Courfeyrac warned.

Feuilly knew it was hopeless to try and keep it to himself, so he told them what Bossuet had mentioned.

Enjolras made a non-committal sound as he scratched Remus behind the ears, but Courfeyrac looked vaguely amused at the news.

"This from the man who's willing to travel halfway across the country and give up the woman he loves because he'd rather be friends with Pierre than go his own way," Courfeyrac snorted.

"I guess I hadn't thought of it that way," Feuilly mused.

"So don't dwell on it," Courfeyrac told him. "Because he isn't one to talk. And besides, it isn't like taking care of a dog is such a huge undertaking."

"Well, I hope not. He's a nice dog," Feuilly said.

"Seems to be. I always wanted a dog…my parents, of course, only saw pets as a distraction. We may have lived on a large estate, but there was not even a horse to be found," Enjolras put in, looking thoughtful.

"Your parents are dreadful liars, Apollo," Courfeyrac informed him. "I had a dog when I was a boy, and it never detracted from my studies."

"Not that you did much studying," Feuilly snorted.

"Oh, stop," Courfeyrac playfully swatted his shoulder.

"So, you really don't think I'm going overboard with Jehan?" he asked, seemingly looking for assurance.

"No," Enjolras said firmly. "You've only done what you have because you're a genuinely kind soul and you only want to help."

"But what about…what if it's all a mistake; all of it? What…"

"Don't start!" Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. "Honestly; if being around me for this long has made any impact on you at all, it should at least have taught you that you should have a higher opinion of yourself no matter what. You knowthe truth, Feuilly? It hardly matters what we're _capable _of doing; good or bad; because what matters is what we _actually _do."

"That's surprisingly deep, François," Enjolras looked sincerely surprised. "You're completely correct, of course, but I never thought to hear that from you."

"Why? Aren't I a good person?"

"Well, naturally. But I suppose I had not considered that you would think about it in such a way," Enjolras explained with a slight tilt of his head.

"You honestly think so. You think I'm a good person!"

"And…"

"It's just…I never thought I'd ever get you to admit it, is all. I already think that it's a miracle you told me you did not hate me, but to get you to say that you actually think me a worthy man….I think a celebration is in order!" Courfeyrac exclaimed.

"You _always _think a celebration is in order," Feuilly groaned. "But if you insists on throwing your money away, make sure to do it somewhere that allows dogs, because Remus goes where I go for the next little while," he reminded them.

"Alright, then. I know a café down by the river that has a patio. We could go down there for a lovely dinner if you two would like," he suggested.

"André was supposed to come over this afternoon…do you think if would be a problem if…"

"Apollo, you think I'm going to say that you can't bring _André _to dinner? With all I owe him, taking him out for a meal is practically the _least _I can do," Courfeyrac told him. "As long as he's not allergic to dogs."

"Pierre is," Feuilly said.

"Pierre is allergic to _everything_!" Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. "Well, so he says. You never know how much of what he claims is _actually _the truth. At least it's warm enough to day that sitting outside, even at night, shouldn't be too uncomfortable."

"True enough. As long as nobody complains about Remus," Feuilly gestured to the brown dog, who looked up as if he knew they were talking about him and cocked his head to the side.

"How could anyone complain about him? He hasn't made a sound the entire time we've been here! I bet even Apollo can't find any fault with him," Courfeyrac glanced at Enjolras, as if daring him to contradict him.

"He's quieter than you, so I don't see why I should have any qualms with him," Enjolras responded with a nonchalant shrug.

"Oh, Apollo. Just when you start to build me up, you tear me down again," Courfeyrac sighed wearily. "Will I ever win?"

"Not against me."

"And you just expect me to sit down and take that?" Courfeyrac shook his head. "You amaze me sometimes."

"I don't see what choice you have," Feuilly shrugged. "Because, and; no offence, François; but Enjolras is right…you won't win."

"Oh, you're no fun. I'm going to reserve us a table, so I will see you three later." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm and cowed slightly before winking and walking off.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter One

**Chapter Thirty**

"So? Was it that bad?"

"Not at all. He's a very nice dog," Feuilly informed Jehan. "It was really nothing, so I don't want to hear any more about it."

"Okay. I won't say anything," Jehan promised with a smile.

"Good. Because I _know _you're still feeling guilty. But…I _am _kind of sad to see him go. They really grow on you," Feuilly scratched Remus behind the ears, and the brown dog thumped his tail in response.

"Well, I'm afraid I have to take him back. I'm sure that you can visit him if you want to," Jehan assured him. "You want to come with?"

"Not if your friend's parents are anything like your own. They'll kick me out of their house before they even look at me," Feuilly sighed. "And the chances are…"

"Don't worry about that," Jehan told him. "My friend's pretty easy-going; he has mostly the same morals we do; and I've told him about you…"

"So he's expecting something grand, no doubt. I'm afraid I'll disappoint him," Feuilly shrugged.

"You won't be disappointing anyone. You're an inspiration, you know," Jehan told him seriously. "To me, at least. And to most of the _Amis_."

"Jehan!"

"I know; you're too humble to accept that type of flattery," he grinned. "Well, you coming?"

Feuilly nodded, and Jehan put an arm around his shoulders as they set off down the street.

000

"So, you accept that he's probably going to run out of money soon and you'll have to pay for him again?" Musichetta asked as she smoothed her skirt down, examining her figure in the mirror.

"He's helped me out a lot, even for a short time," Joly replied. "It isn't as if I have any monetary problems…my parents may not entirely approve of him living here for free, but they're more or less so amazed that I've managed to find a lovely mistress who can overlook my faults that they're willing to ignore it," he explained, causing Musichetta to laugh as she turned around.

"Your faults, as you put them, are not hard to overlook," she assured him, giving him a quick kiss before joining him on the couch and taking his hands.

"Well, thank you, my darling. That means a lot, coming from a woman who has no faults at all," Joly replied with a smile.

"You never miss a chance to flatter me, do you?" she sighed. "But I thought we were going for dinner?"

"We are." Joly stood and offered her his arm, which she took with a smile. "Shall we?"

000

"What should my next move be?" Grantaire looked at Bahorel and blinked, tilting his wine bottle so violently that Bahorel had to grab it to stop the contents from spilling out.

"What are we referring to?" he asked once he had righted the bottle.

"Well…" Grantaire looked bewildered. "To get Apollo to like me, of course!"

"I've told you, Richard; we all have, I think; that the first thing you have to do is put the wine bottle down and order a cup of coffee."

"Hmm…" Grantaire looked to be considering this for a second before bringing the bottle back to his lips and taking a long drink. "I think that's a bit much to ask, don't you?"

"Ah…" Bahorel sighed.

"There has to be some other way…"

"Richard, the only reason Enjolras thinks as little of you as he does is because of your seemingly ceaseless consumption of alcohol," Bahorel reminded him.

"The only reason! That means I have to choose between Apollo and my bottle…" he looked conflicted. "Tristan, what do you…"

"You're the only one who can decide this," Bahorel leant back in his chair and let his eyes wander around the tavern. It was relatively empty at this time of the afternoon, but Grantaire hardly even seemed to have a home…he was always in some café or tavern, no matter what the time of day was.

"Hmm…" Grantaire topped his chin as he stared at the wine. "I think that, for the moment, the drink wins."

"So be it," Bahorel muttered. "I suppose it's your choice, in the end."

"That's right. It is." Grantaire looked wary that he had made the _wrong _choice, but Bahorel made no indication of how he felt, so Grantaire turned back to his wine.

Bahorel watched him without ever changing his expression. _Well, maybe one day, _he thought. _Maybe one day something will draw him away from his wine and toward something more. _

000

"Stupid…law…exam…" Courfeyrac lugged his books up onto the table and exhaled heavily. "How many books do they think we _need?"_

"A lot," Enjolras supplied helpfully, bent over his own books.

"Thank you for that incredibly obvious answer, Apollo," Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

"You asked," Combeferre smiled, resting his chin on his hand and glancing at the monstrous pile of books.

"It wasn't a question that required an answer!" Courfeyrac protested.

"Should have said that sooner," Enjolras muttered, flipping hastily through a thick textbook and jotting down notes on a spare sheet of paper. "And no, you cannot borrow my notes," he said, glancing up at Courfeyrac, who was inconspicuously trying to copy said notes.

"But why not?"

"How exactly does copying off of Apollo help you learn anything?" Combeferre inquired with a smile.

"Why aren't _you _studying something, André?" Courfeyrac glanced at the philosopher.

"Because, for once, I actually do not have any exams or papers that are due anytime soon," Combeferre replied, causing Courfeyrac to groan. "But may I remind you that I have an actual job to do as well as university classes to attend?"

"Oh, fine."

"François is just bitter because he knows he could never be reliable enough to hold down a job such as yours," Enjolras noted.

"Correction: I would never _want _to hold down a job such as his. Being a surgeon has never appealed to me…my stomach would never be able to handle it," he admitted with a grimace.

"Well, it's a challenge, sometimes. But it's also incredibly rewarding," Combeferre explained.

"Sure," Courfeyrac shrugged, turning his attention back to his textbooks and paging through them again. "You're sure I can't…"

"No." Enjolras barely even glanced up as he answered.

"Not even for…"

"No."

"But…"

"_No, _François. For the last time, you are not copying my notes!" Enjolras barely spared him a seconds' glance before looking back at his books.

"And no, I'm not writing your paper for you, either," Combeferre said as Courfeyrac turned to him expectantly. "I don't know a thing about law."

"And I think you'd _still _manage to get a better grade than me," Courfeyrac looked disgruntled. "I swear the professor's got it in for me, and I have no idea why. I'm completely charming…"

Enjolras and Combeferre simultaneously rolled their eyes as Combeferre replied, "Still not writing it. Sorry."

"Sometimes I really don't like you," Courfeyrac closed his book with a pointed glarer at the other two men. "I need more books."

"Clearing out the library won't help unless you actually _read _the books, François!" Combeferre informed him as he stood up.

"Very funny, André. Just you wait until I get a better mark than you," he directed the last to Enjolras, who was chuckling, before he left.

"You don't think we were being too harsh, do you?" Combeferre glanced at Enjolras, a slight hint of worry in his brown eyes.

Enjolras shook his head with a sigh, reaching up to run a hand through his golden hair. "Not at all. It's his mark. Why should the rest of us have to do our own work if he can get off completely free?"

"Well, true enough. Are you going to write your entire report this afternoon?"

"I could use a break, if that's what you're suggesting." Enjolras closed his book and glanced up hopefully.

"It is."

"Wonderful."

"Coffee and a stroll through the Luxembourg?"

"Coffee and a stroll through the Luxembourg," Enjolras affirmed with a smile.

000

Bossuet was content. A rather odd thing to be, he reflected, considering that merely the day before he had been unceremoniously erased from the registrar…all due to a thoughtful, charitable act on his part!

So, his dreams of being a lawyer were all but gone, and he realized that the fact did not affect him in the least. He was still trying to figure out how he was going to break the news to Joly; he wasn't sure how the medical student would take it; but maybe he could help Bossuet figure out what to do with his life. He knew the other man almost as well as Bossuet knew himself, after all.

But the fact that he had given up a prestigious career for somebody else made him want to _meet _this lucky man; although, since he wasn't going to show his face in Blondeau's class again, he did not see how that was possible.

Until a cabriolet with a carpet bag bearing the name 'Marius Pontmercy' went by. Bossuet thought that this was _far _too lucky…unless, of course, meeting this Marius would actually be _bad _luck, but…he stopped thinking about that and glanced through the carriage window, hoping to catch a glimpse of this boy.

He was young. Very young, and his jet-black tightly curled hair and sky-blue eyes only added to his Roman appearance. Of course, with a name like 'Marius,' he hardly could have expected anything less than for him to appear somewhat Roman-esque. But realizing that he would have to make a move before this rare lucky opportunity came and went, he took a deep breath and called out, "Monsieur Marius Pontmercy?"

Upon being hailed, the cabriolet rolled to a halt, and the boy inside glanced up sharply, looking out the window in confusion. "What?" He had the appearance of somehow who had just been awakened from a daydream.

Bossuet pushed himself up from where he had been leaning against the wall and took a few measured steps toward the carriage.

"You _are _Monsieur Marius Pontmercy?" he asked again, as the boy continued to stare at him in obvious bewilderment. It couldn't be because Bossuet knew his name, though; after all, it was printed in rather large letters on his carpet bag. Eventually, Marius seemed to realize that a reply was in order.

"Certainly."

He still looked somewhat unsure, but he opened the door of the carriage and stepped out, straightening his cravat and smoothing down his jacket as he did so.

Bossuet glanced back at the café and wondered if anybody else was around. He knew Enjolras and Combeferre had left not long before; to 'avoid Courfeyrac', they had said; and they had mentioned something about writing a paper that Bossuet no doubt should _also _have been writing…if he were still enrolled at the University, that is. But if they were avoiding Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac knew it, he probably would not be going through the main entrance anyway.

Bossuet shrugged and took a few steps forward towards the boy, who was looking rather wary. Bossuet realized that he still hadn't said why he had stopped the cabriolet as it rolled by.

He put a hand on Marius' shoulder, and Marius glanced to look at him in surprise, seemingly lost in his own world again. Bossuet had a thought that this young man and Jehan seemed to have a knack for dreaming while awake, but he figured that they would meet in due time if it was meant to happen.

Wondering what he was getting himself into, he took a deep breath, smiled, and said:

"I was looking for you."

_**Fin**_

**Ohmigosh! It's DONE!!**

**Seriously, though, I started writing this in July of last year, so it's been seven months of writing every night, and almost a year of posting. Craziness. **

**I hope everyone enjoyed it! It's definitely my most detailed and (probably) best work, and I've thoroughly enjoyed writing these characters. They're amazing:) And if you haven't written anything **_**Amis-**_**related, do so, because the possibilities are nearly endless. **

**All of the dialogue in the Bossuet part is taken straight from the book, so if it sounds familiar, that is probably why. But it seemed a logical place to end the story; with Marius coming in; and in fact I had planned the ending out right from the very beginning! **

**Hem. Rambling. But once again, thanks to everyone who stuck through this (and especially GizmoBunny and frustratedstudent, who have reviewed nearly every chapter)! But a humongous thank-you to ALL of my reviewers, because that's what encouraged me to keep going! As I've said, I still want to get 100 reviews for this, but I'll be happy with whatever I can get:)**

**On a less-happy note…this MAY be my last Miz-fic for a while. I love these boys dearly, but my Mizzie muse (who doesn't really have a form yet. I'll blame it on Jehan) has been asleep of late. I've gotten into some other fandoms, so this may be the last work in the foreseeable future. However, this does NOT mean I'm dropping out of the fandom. So expect to see me around dropping reviews and reading stories, because this fandom deserves all it gets! **

**(Wearing my Mizzie shirt today; Huzzah!) **

**On a last note…it is BARRICADE DAY!! (hums 'Do You Hear the People Sing'). I'm sure you all know what that is by now. It's also known as "the-day-many-Miz-fics-shall-be-posted/updated." I realized that last year. Yes, it's been 176 years. Wow. But, since I'll be away for ma birfday next week, I figured that the most appropriate day to finish this fic solely about the **_**Amis **_**should be on a day dedicated to them, so this is for you, boys! **

**Seriously, my ANs are WAY too long. Once again, thank you to EVERYBODY! And see you around. Hopefully. **

**Oh, and drop me a review on your way out if you're so inclined! **

_**Adieu, mes amis! **_

**BregoArodShadowfax**


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